


i know the end (the end is here)

by attonitos_gloria



Series: prompts & gifts <3 [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (But it's a tragedy), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Azor Ahai, BAMF Jaime Lannister, BAMF Sansa Stark, But mostly plot-driven, Canon Divergence - Sansa goes South, Eventual Romance, F/M, Gen, Jon Snow is a Gift, Mad Queen Cersei Lannister, Minor Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Morally Ambiguous Character, Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Post-Season/Series 06 AU, Season/Series 07, Season/Series 08, Smart Tyrion Lannister, Three-Eyed Raven Bran Stark, Westerosi Politics, season 8 bashing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 09:53:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26970052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attonitos_gloria/pseuds/attonitos_gloria
Summary: “Let me go in your stead,” she asks, holding her brother’s face between her hands, fixing her blue gaze on his gray one. He is the kindest man she’s ever known, and the only one the North can fully trust. Sansa also had recognized Tyrion’s scribbling on the small parchment cramped between the raven’s claws and had no time to pick apart the myriad of feelings that bloomed from it. He was alive, her Lannister husband. He was Hand. He brought a Targaryen to Westeros. And, allegedly, dragons. “Stay here. Stay in the North, with your people. Get us ready for the War.”[For the prompt:Sansa is voted for the Iron Throne and picks Tyrion as her Hand.Season 7/8 re-imagining where Sansa goes to Dragonstone to deal with Daenerys instead of Jon.]
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Tyrion Lannister/Sansa Stark
Series: prompts & gifts <3 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1986967
Comments: 138
Kudos: 180





	1. The Wolfless One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [casuallyhuman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/casuallyhuman/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> · This little thing was supposed to be a one-shot, but I couldn’t help myself and now this is a whole fix-it of season 7 and 8 - I know everyone did it already! And I’m super late! But better late than never. Each chapter is dedicated to a different character (but still pretty much Sansa-centered, sorry). Imagine the scenario at the end of season 6/beginning of 7.
> 
> · This is neither pro-Dany or anti-Dany. I actually like Daenerys and she’s not mad here, but I promise no happy endings, except for what was prompted to me :P I can assure you, however, that though she often feels like an antagonist, she’s not the main villain in the story.
> 
> · This work is, however, 100% pro-Jaime Lannister. I am not sorry.
> 
> · I’m going through a lack of inspiration to write my WIP, and I’ve decided to accept prompts in the meantime, [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15151454/chapters/65635006#workskin) :) This one was given to me by the wonderful casuallyhuman <3 (I'm sorry, my dear: you asked for a sort of romantic one-shot and here I am, giving you tons of plot and politics. But I'll deliver what you asked for!!)
> 
> · I guess you’ll have to read this mess of a work to understand what I’m trying to say. Title from “I know the end” by Phoebe Bridgers.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


_Close my eyes, fantasize;_  
_three clicks and I'm home_

  
  
  
**i.**

Even after Ramsay’s gone, his body destroyed by the teeth of his own hungry dogs, Sansa can sense a shadow of danger lurking about Winterfell. Jon, brave, beautiful, and kind to the point of foolishness, cannot. He swears to her that she’s safe; that nobody will ever touch her again, for he won’t allow it. Sansa believes Jon means every one of his words, which is different from her believing him altogether. He dismisses Cersei as a minor threat. Compared to utter annihilation, everything else is minor. _The danger_ , Jon insists, _comes from the true North._

She understands his point. But she also knows Cersei, with her bone and marrow, more than she’d like.

She tells Jon he’s as far from Joffrey as anyone she’s ever met; it’s true. Whatever Joffrey was, Jon stands on the opposite end of it, which means he suffered so much more for an equally ugly, traitorous death.

Sansa loves Jon madly, in a way she never had the chance to love Robb; she’d do anything to keep him safe. It’s what they do. They protect each other.

She’d do, really, anything.

  
  
  
**ii.**

“Let me go in your stead,” she asks, holding her brother’s face between her hands, fixing her blue gaze on his gray one. He is the kindest man she’s ever known, and the only one the North can fully trust. Sansa also had recognized Tyrion’s scribbling on the small parchment cramped between the raven’s claws and had no time to pick apart the myriad of feelings that bloomed from it. He was alive, her Lannister husband. He was Hand. He brought a Targaryen to Westeros. And, allegedly, dragons. “Stay here. Stay in the North, with your people. Get us ready for the War.”

“I won’t let you leave alone,” Jon declares.

“I don’t think Brienne would allow that, either,” Sansa says, letting her hands drop from his face as she thinks it through. “Davos should stay here with you, though.”

Jon takes a hesitant breath, looking through the window of her solar to the snowy courtyard of their home. “Tyrion will be there.”

Sansa clasps her hands together. “Yes,” she says, carefully.

Jon stares. “Do you trust him?”

 _Trust_ is a strong word, but, as far as words go, “I do.” She feels the need to clarify: “I can handle him.”

“We need allies for this War,” Jon sighs. “I don’t want to create more enemies than the ones we already have. We need armies and dragonglass.”

“Send me in your name, and I _can_ do it for us,” Sansa pleads, once again. She leans forward, takes Jon’s hands in hers again. “You said we needed to trust each other,” she murmurs, quietly.

“Trust is not the issue,” Jon replies. “I don’t want to send you away from home again. _You_ are the Stark of Winterfell.”

“You are a Stark in all but name, and this crown is _yours,_ ” Sansa says, fiercely, and then, “I’ve been in the South before. I know them. I can _do_ this, Jon.”

The look in his eyes is defeated enough. It will take him a few days, but she knows she already won.

  
  
  
**iii.**

Before she leaves, she goes to Petyr.

“I need you back in the Eyrie,” she says to him, in her solar, in private, when nobody’s watching.

He rests against the closed door with arms crossed over his chest and that smirk on his face, the one who’s not quite a smirk, no teeth, just eyes like snakes.

“It’s bold of you to go South like that,” he says. “Alone, in the pit of dragons and the lion’s den again.”

“I won’t go alone,” she says, walking around her table, back turned to him. He knows her better than anyone. He created her. Her hands shake and she folds it away, tangles her fingers together where he can’t see it. “Brienne is going with me.”

“Let me go with you,” he pleads, and his voice is suddenly nearer. She hadn’t listened to his steps approaching. “We can do this together.”

 _You and me,_ he’d said, _together on the Iron Throne_.

There’s no way in hell she’s leaving that man alone in her home with Jon, of all people, and she can’t take him with her, can’t let him anywhere near _Tyrion_.

She turns around, and looks at him as her mother once looked at her father. “My cousin is the heir of the Vale and we left him alone,” she says. “And there are more men in the Vale that can come to our aid. You’re their Lord Protector; they’ll come, if you order them to.” She smooths her tongue, a trick she learnt from him. “I’ll send you the word when it’s time, but I need your help, my lord.” He gives another step, too close to comfort. She feels his mint-scented breath and closes the distance between them, placing a kiss on his cheek, almost on the left corner of his mouth. “Do it for me,” she says. Like a daughter, now.

It’s not, technically, a lie, any part of it. Sansa is a very bad liar. Her truth spills out when she’s silent. She needs to speak it out, act it out, to hide it.

He chuckles. “Sweetling,” he says, proudly, “you go. You’re ready for the big game.”

  
  
  
**iv.**

(The hounds that ate Ramsay alive - Sansa ordered them to be sacrificed by the butchers, afterward. Nobody tells that part.

There are names, whispers, for her. _The Red Wolf_ , the kinder tongues call her, but more often than she’d like, _the Wolfless One_ , and once would be too many times already. Nymeria will eventually come home with Arya. Ghost comes and goes, but he’s never too far from Jon, too far from the true North. Rickon died not long after his wolf. Bran became something else, other than a Stark, without Summer.

 _Winterfell’s daughter,_ they call her: born of that castle, of its dark walls and cold towers and haunted rooms and bloody history.

 _Winterfell’s daughter._ It’s not said proudly.

Sansa ordered Ramsay’s hounds to be sacrificed. She remembered Lady, and then didn’t.)

  
  
  
**v.**

Dragonstone is what the name suggests: dragon-shaped dark stones, towering in the horizon beyond the shore as they approach. It smells of sulfur and brimstone, and there’s smoke coming out of one of the towers. It doesn’t feel like a place where life can be nurtured.

Tyrion Lannister is waiting on the shore, and when Sansa comes off of their boat, she almost loses her stance. He’s grown a beard, and is covered in dark clothes (as she is), so different from the golden and crimson Lannister garments she last saw him using. Brienne’s hand is there to keep her from falling, and when they’re asked to be handed their weapons, she puts her hand over the hilt of her sword.

Sansa touches Brienne’s elbow while looking into her once-husband eyes. “It’s fine, Brienne.”

Tyrion nods to her, as if to say _yes, it is,_ and gives a step ahead. “Lady of Winterfell,” he says. She offers him her hand, and he places a kiss over her gloved knuckles, then lets it go, “it has a nice ring to it.”

“So does Hand of the Queen,” she says, and looks around. Daenerys’ men are guiding the northern party that came with her toward a seemingly endless staircase, taking their weapons and their boats. He guides the way and Sansa follows him. “Are we being held hostages?”

“Absolutely not,” he says. “The Queen is merely taking protective measures.”

“The Queen does sound a little paranoid,” Sansa mutters. Tyrion looks at her with a gingerly look, an amused smirk dancing in his lips. “What is it?”

“It’s been quite a while since I last saw you, Lady Stark, and you’re different. That is all.”

“So are you,” she says. She feels more nervous than she shows and tries not to let it overwhelm her. “I like the beard.”

“Hmm, thank you,” he says, absently brushing the hair covering his jaw. “I shall keep it, then, if it pleases my wife,” he completes with a chuckle, and Sansa tenses beside him. He doesn’t even look at the side to notice it. “I’m only jesting, my lady. Rumours say you’ve been since married to another. A northerner?”

“Yes.” She looks down at him, refusing to let her voice waver much. So he doesn’t know. “But I had him executed.”

That makes him stop in his spot, long enough so there’s a considerable distance between them and the last in line ahead. “Oh,” he says, curling one eyebrow. She hasn’t forgotten he always had expressive eyes. “Do I want to know the story?”

“I don’t think so,” Sansa murmurs, and resumes her walking. This time, he follows. “Let’s just say you were a better husband by every standard.”

“I was a less than serviceable husband to you, I believe,” he says, his voice clearly uncomfortable. Sansa likes, not without guilt, that he’s uncomfortable. “So you probably had the right of it.”

“I did,” she confirms, but doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t ask, either.

When the dragons fly right above their heads, Sansa makes sure to hide both her wonder and her fear.

  
  
  
**vi.**

The throne carved out of stone at the dais is way more impressive than the Iron Throne.

Or so Sansa thinks as the girl, Missandei, declares the longest list of titles she’s ever heard. _Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. Rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men. Protector of the Seven Kingdoms. The Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains._ The claimant to the Iron Throne is a beautiful woman, young like her. There’s a certain innocence in her big eyes. It’s not how Sansa had pictured dragons, but she can sense the danger beneath, anyway.

“This is Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell,” Brienne says by her side. “She speaks and acts in the name of her brother, Jon Snow, the King in the North.”

“Thank you for travelling so far, my lady,” the Queen says with a well-rehearsed smile. “I hope the seas weren’t too rough.”

“The winds were kind enough. We thank you for your hospitality,” Sansa replies, folding her hands on her back.

“Now, not that you’re less than welcome,” Daenerys hurries to explain, “but I’ve sent word for your brother, not you, my lady. I’ve beckoned him to bend the knee and surrender his Crown, so we could be allies.”

“I hold no Crown to give you,” Sansa says, “and the King in the North didn’t give me permission to do so.”

The Dragon Queen seems confused, and her smile wavers one inch.

“Forgive me, my lady,” she says. “I never did receive a formal education, but I could have sworn I read that the last King In The North was Torrhen Stark, who bent the knee to my ancestor Aegon Targaryen. In exchange for his life and the lives of the northern men, he swore fealty to House Targaryen in perpetuity. Or do I have my facts wrong?”

“I’m afraid you do, Your Grace,” Sansa replies, as politely as she can. She sees, with the corner of her eye, Tyrion leaning his head down to conceal a smile. “The last King in the North was Robb Stark. My brother Jon Snow was crowned by our people after we defeated the Boltons, who had taken our ancestral home.” She makes a pause, just long enough to let the words settle. “I have not come to give the North away.”

Daenerys never truly stops smiling at her as she proceeds. “Well, that is unfortunate,” she says, sounding too pleased for someone speaking of misfortunes. “You've traveled all this way to break faith with House Targaryen?”

At that, Sansa chuckles, but it’s quiet, under her breath, and humorless. “Break faith?” Sansa asks. “Not at all, Your Grace.” She looks around. An unsullied beside Missandei stares at Sansa with a cold, lifeless gaze; the Dothraki men on the lower steps of the dais are equally disturbing. Sansa assumes they are there to scare her, as if she, a woman stripped of her weapons, is the threat, instead of the team of skilled assassins surrounding the young Targaryen. She looks at the claimant Queen again. “I wonder if it’s too bold of me to ask for a private audience so I can properly present my case?”

“These are men and women of my uttermost trust,” says the white-haired woman. It sounds rehearsed. “I have nothing to hide from them.”

Sansa lets a smile tug at the right corner of her lips just so. If the Queen wants an audience, then Sansa can work with an audience. “I see,” she says, but before she can form another sentence, the Hand interrupts.

“Perhaps the ladies would like a bath and a meal?” Tyrion suggests. “They must certainly be tired.”

Sansa catches his eye. His spine is straight and his eyes are certain, firm. He’s different from what she remembers, yes; she didn’t lie. But he’s always been like this, too much of a Lannister to keep his head down. She remembers him staring at Joffrey, refusing to kneel. He was born to wear that badge, and he wears it better now. _Or maybe not_ , she thinks, forcing herself to keep her eyes away from the imposing Queen on the stony throne and staring into her former husband’s eyes instead. “We’d appreciate that very much, my lord.”

  
  
  
**vii.**

She and Brienne are given chambers separated by a door. As sunlight leaves them, Sansa stares at her window, at the merciless seas. Somewhere in the horizon, King’s Landing stands beyond Blackwater Bay, and Cersei Lannister reigns over it.

It’s been a long journey South, and she’s bone-tired. Cheese and bread are served in their chambers, before dinner time, but as soon as Sansa eats and baths, she lies on the featherbed and falls asleep immediately.

She dreams of a castle. It looks like Winterfell, though she knows it isn’t, in that way we know when we dream. It’s empty and her feet echo as she runs through the corridors, desperately trying not to make any more noise. Until she takes a turn and bumps against a rotten body, stinking like death and cold as ice. A bony grip closes around her neck, and blue eyes bore into hers, but she can discern the blond hair, the rusty crown upon her brow. Cersei, dead, smiles at her. “I’ve been looking for you, little dove,” she says, but her voice is not like anything Sansa’s ever heard before. Worms spill out from her mouth when she speaks.

Sansa wakes up with a barely contained scream, alone in her bedroom. She goes to the window and cracks it open, lets the wind kiss her face as she breathes in and out the scent of sulfur, brimstone and salt. The Red Keep seems to be staring at her, from the distance, from the dark.

She closes the window, comes back to bed.

  
  
  
**viii.**

The next morning, after she breaks her fast, Sansa is invited to meet the Queen again.

She suspects there’s a touch of Tyrion on it, because she’s not led to the Throne Room. Instead, a quiet Unsullied guides her to a room that reminds her, vaguely, of her own solar in Winterfell; it seems like a council room, but almost all chairs are empty. There’s a giant wooden table shaped after Westeros, several wooden pieces distributed abroad, most of them around King’s Landing or Dragonstone. The Queen is waiting, standing over the window that opens to the cliff and the sea, below, her back turned to Sansa when she enters; Tyrion is there, too, sitting in front of the map. “My lady,” he greets as the unsullied closes the door behind Sansa, “I hope you’re well rested.”

Sansa nods, her eyes darting to him, to the Queen, to him again. “I am,” she confirms. “Thank you, my lord. I am sorry I missed dinner last night.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” the Queen says, turning around to face Sansa. Against the sunlight coming from the window behind her, she is just a shadow, her small body delineated but the smallest details of her pretty face hidden. Tyrion’s chair stays half in the dark, half in the daylight. His fingers tap over Blackwater Bay. Sansa feels a pang of jealousy looking at the pair of them. A Queen and her Hand: allies, partners. She couldn’t give it to him, before, and she feels a silly regret over it, like she just lost something she never had. “You were tired. But your friend is a delightful company,” Daenerys smiles.

Sansa can’t help but smile, too. “Brienne is wonderful,” she agrees.

Daenerys shares a look with Tyrion before she sits in one of the chairs by his side. She signals for an empty one. “Why don’t you take a seat, Lady Sansa? We have a lot to talk about.”

Sansa does as she’s told. She takes note of pieces of wooden dragons covering Dorne, the Reach, the Iron Islands and Dragonstone.

So, Olenna Tyrell. The Greyjoys, at least one of them. And who is holding Dorne, now?

“I’ve never known Cersei Lannister,” Daenerys says, “but for what I’ve been told, she’s a cruel tyrant that might as well be mad.”

“I’ve known mad men and women enough to confirm that Cersei is one of them,” Sansa agrees.

That seems to please Daenerys.

“It seems dangerous to leave such a woman in charge,” she says. “Even more if she’s an usurper. What could be more urgent than defeating her?”

A kraken, a rose and a snake surround King’s Landing, where a wooden lion stands alone. “You plan to besiege King’s Landing,” Sansa says, eyes on the table-map in front of her.

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence, and when she raises her head, she sees two pairs of surprised eyes studying her. She focuses on Daenerys’, only because Tyrion is more distracting. “What do you think of it?” The Queen asks.

Sansa feels Petyr’s hand resting on her shoulder. She bites her lower lip as she thinks. “I think it’s a good plan,” Sansa replies, honestly. “You could just burn the city with your dragons, but a siege might spare part of the people.”

“A siege can be cruel, too,” Daenerys offers. Sansa feels she’s being tested. “The people of King’s Landing are going to starve, some of them to death, until she surrenders.”

Sansa shakes her head. “Cersei is never going to surrender,” she says. “But a siege will weaken her men. And war is war. People die.” She cocks her head to the side, thinking it through. She raises her eyes to Tyrion, suddenly understanding. “The siege was your idea, wasn’t it?” He shares another look with his Queen, and bites the inner face of his cheek, but doesn’t answer. Sansa’s eyes come back to the map. “What about the royal fleet? Cersei doesn’t strike me as a Queen who would leave Blackwater Bay completely unprotected.”

“I think that, too. There’s something we’re missing,” Tyrion confirms, as if puzzled. His fingers are still over the contour of the same place he once protected the city and gave the victory to Joffrey and his father. Sansa knows the true story, though. “Most of the royal fleet was loyal to Stannis and was decimated during the Wars,” he answers. “The second larger fleet belongs to the Redwynes of Arbor.”

“Olenna is with you,” Sansa notes. “Will the Redwynes betray the Queen in favor of their liege lady?”

“I, for my part, do not trust any Tyrell whatsoever,” Tyrion says, all sour. Sansa holds back a chuckle. She can’t resent Olenna, even knowing the woman framed her and Tyrion for Joffrey’s murder, but Tyrion clearly can. She can’t blame him, either. He was the one who almost died because of the scheme, after all. “But yes, historically, the Redwynes stand with Highgarden.”

“Cersei wouldn’t trust them,” Sansa ponders. She cannot imagine such a paranoid woman putting so much at stake when the Tyrells are involved.

“No, I don’t think so,” Tyrion agrees.

“So she _must_ have a fleet from somewhere else.” Sansa licks her lower lip. “I see you have the Ironborn.”

“Yara and Theon Greyjoy,” Daenerys replies.

Sansa raises her head.

“ _Theon Greyjoy_ is here?”

“Yes,” Daenerys answers, absently.

“The uncle,” Tyrion says, turning to his Queen, as if he has been slapped. “He never searched for you. He must have gone to Cersei.”

Daenerys nods, leaning over the table, her arms crossed. “It’s a good thing we delayed our departure, then. Put Varys to work on it,” Daenerys orders. She looks at Sansa with an odd sort of admiration. “Lady Sansa, Lord Tyrion spoke fondly of you, but I didn’t imagine you were such a strategist.”

“I’m no commander, Your Grace,” she says. “I just know my enemies well.” She remembers Rickon’s corpse, fallen and trespassed by an arrow, and forces herself to forget.

“I’m genuinely impressed,” Daenerys says. “If I recall, you wanted a private meeting to present your case. I am willing to listen.”

Over the table, a wooden wolf watches over the North. He seems small in such a broad land, and lonely, too. _The lone wolf dies,_ she remembers. “An army of undead men are coming for us,” Sansa says, trying not to sound too ridiculous or outright mad. Jon is so much better at this. “The Wall is the only thing standing between them and the rest of the realms. If they cross it, they’ll take over the North in a week.” Sansa does a quick math. “I imagine they must take another week to get to the Neck.”

A heavy silence hovers above them. She can feel Tyrion’s gaze, harder than ever, upon her; but Sansa keeps her eyes on the Queen’s. “An army of undead men?” Daenerys echoes.

“We are sitting upon mines of dragonglass,” Sansa says, taking advantage of the moment. “Obsidian can kill the dead. You have three adult dragons. Fire, too, can kill them.” She tries not to despair. This is no time to show any weakness. “Cersei Lannister is an enormous threat, but if the dead come to us, there’ll be no Cersei to defeat, or Iron Throne to take, or realms to rule over.” She puts both of her hands, delicately, over the edge of the table-map. “I find it imperative for us to unite against the common enemy that could annihilate life as we know it.”

“Dead men,” she repeats. “You expect me to believe dead men are coming to kill us all?”

Sansa can’t help it, and sighs. “My lord,” she says, turning toward Tyrion. “Am I a liar?”

“A terrible one,” he replies.

“And my brother, the King? You’ve known him.”

“An even worse liar,” the Hand replies. He seems confused. “My lady, what are you proposing?”

Sansa turns to Daenerys again. “It is of both of our interests to get rid of Cersei Lannister. Allow my men to work on the mines of Dragonstone,” Sansa says. “Gather your armies and your allies and send them North. Prepare for a long winter. When the true danger is dealt with, we shall help you take your crown,” Sansa promises. “We’ll defeat Cersei together.”

“What about _your_ crown?” Daenerys presses in.

Sansa presses her lips hard against each other, her mouth a thin line, and closes her eyes for a second. “As I’ve said, Your Grace,” she says, calmly, “I have no crown to give you. I’m merely Lady of Winterfell.”

Daenerys Targaryen stands up. Her face is hard and unrelenting; she is a reflex of the castle around her, much like Sansa _is_ Winterfell. “You must understand that what you say to us sounds like a child tale. Should I abandon our campaign to retake my birth-right only to fight against an imaginary enemy, worse so when you refuse to bend the knee to me?”

“The undead are not imaginary,” Sansa retorts, trying not to lose her patience. “The North is the only thing standing between the Iron Throne and the Dead, and our defeat only increases their numbers. You may find it is, if not honorable, at least useful to come to our aid.”

The Queen is not as pleased with her tone as she was with Sansa’s previous interventions, but it is Tyrion’s face that she’s watching closely. She can see the glint of curiosity, respect and something else there, that old longing she could notice even in the early days of their marriage. She’s dismissed from the council room, Daenerys’ face cold and calculating, but Sansa is content enough with the morning.

It’s the Hand she needs by her side. The Queen will come after.

  
  
  
**ix.**

She finds Theon on the shore and calls out his name, the wind carrying on her voice. He looks at her like she’s a ghost, abandoning the company of his men as if she’s the only person alive in the world, walking toward her with incredulous, diffident steps. “Sansa?”

He looks _alive_ , unlike the last time they’ve met. There’s so much Sansa wants to say. That she’s taken Winterfell back. That she killed Ramsay and justice has been done for them both. That the North is free. That there’s an army of corpses coming toward them. But all she can do is open her arms as soon as he’s within her reach.

Sansa throws her arms around his neck, clutching him tight as she allows herself to cry of relief. She can feel he was not waiting for it. “You’re alive,” she murmurs, over and over again.

Only then he returns her embrace. Theon doesn’t say a word. He just holds her, the unfamiliar southern sea breeze kissing his hair.

  
  
  
**x.**

That night, Tyrion knocks on her door. The whole castle is shadowy and dark and cold; the fire burning in the small hearth is the only source of heat and light. They silently settle in the fireplace, and Sansa’s ladyship takes over. “I am sorry, my lord,” she murmurs. “I’m afraid I have no wine to offer.”

He chuckles. “It’s no matter; you are the guest,” he says, soothingly. “Apparently, Stannis didn’t want his men to be drunk, so he got rid of most of the stocks of wine.”

“Oh,” Sansa says.

“Yes, I know,” he rolls his eyes dramatically.

Sansa chortles, but finds herself at a loss for words. Tyrion studies her face, in a way that reminds her of the night of the Battle of Blackwater. _I’ll pray for your safe return, my lord_ , she’d said, in a prim voice, and that face he made, the same face, now-

_will you?_

She never fooled him, back then. She was just a scared girl, rooting for Stannis Baratheon to save her.

“You were remarkable this morning,” he begins. “I’ve spent the last weeks feeling like there was a word at the tip of my tongue that I just couldn’t remember, and you just seemed to pull it out for me. I was running out of arguments to give to Daenerys on why we should delay our attack.”

She tries to avoid the flush of pride warming her chest. Fails. “I’m glad to be helpful,” she says. “Though it’s surprising to see you so invested in fighting your own family. The last time we saw, you were bathed in crimson and gold.”

He shrugs, doesn’t say anything. It’s unlike him, all this silence, but she knows he’s being elusive to have a chance to study her. He doesn’t trust her yet, and why should he?, when she refuses to recognize his Queen’s claim, when she left him alone to die, when they’ve never been-

“Well,” at last, he speaks, “the last time we saw, you were just a girl repeating the words you were taught. I guess much is changed.”

On instinct, Sansa raises her chin just a fraction of one inch. “You still see a girl when you look at me.” It’s an accusation.

Something shifts with the light in his eyes. Mistrust. Awe. Wonder. Doubt.

(She remembers Petyr saying-

 _always assume the worst_.)

“I can assure you I do not,” he replies. Another jet of blood runs to her neck and cheeks; this time, Sansa can’t quite understand what it is. “Have you seen them? The dead?”

She’s almost taken aback with the sharpness of the question and the sudden change of subject. “No,” she confesses. “But Jon has.”

Tyrion’s gaze scrutinizes her. “And what do you know about them?”

“They don’t tire and don’t stop,” she says. She’s heard Jon repeat the words so much that now they’re almost like a song, coming easily to her tongue. “There are white walkers and dead men. The white walkers raise the fallen to be their soldiers. That means that when our men die, their army increases.” She closes her eyes. “We know they can’t swim,” she raises one finger. “We know that the dead can be killed by fire or by dragonglass,” she raises two more. “The White Walkers die by dragonglass, but nobody has ever tried fire. The Wall keeps them at bay, but Jon guarantees me that they’ll find a way to break in. Apparently, there’s a magic horn hidden beyond the Wall that will make it crumble and fall once it’s found and blown,” Sansa shakes her head, pinches the bridge of her nose. Tyrion licks his lower lip, apparently, trying not to smirk, and she sighs. “You think I’m mad.”

“As crazy as it may seem, Sansa, I don’t.” He taps his fingers over the arm of the chair. “I’ve granted your men permission to work on the dragonglass of the island.”

She tries not to let her pride and joy show, but it is rather useless; she allows herself a small smile, as an indulgence. “I appreciate your collaboration, my lord.”

“Tyrion, Sansa,” he says. “My name is Tyrion.”

She is hit by a memory-

( _He’s playing with you,_ Petyr says in her ear. _He remembers, too._ )

“Tyrion,” she says, carefully. Tries not to like too much the way it is easier to speak his name now than it was, before. But she’s not sure Petyr is right, or the part of her that always expects the worst. Because Tyrion keeps staring at her, and his eyes grow tender, in a way almost pained. “What is wrong, Tyrion?”

He hesitates. That, too, is unlike him. “I took the liberty of asking Varys about your late husband.”

Sansa feels her body tensing before she can stop it. All her words and lines just die in her throat as she waits for his next word.

“I am so terribly sorry, Sansa,” he whispers. “I should have-”

“Don’t,” she says, interrupting that sentence before he can go along that path. The imaginary, fantasy world of _what ifs_ that Sansa learned, long ago and with her every fiber, to never visit, not even in dreams. She closes her eyes; this is what hurts the most. “Don’t do that. Please.”

Whatever is in her face, it seems to be enough to convince him. He gets up, and walks the distance between them until he’s standing in front of her chair.

And Sansa holds her breath. His clothes smell clean, like soap, and his skin has the salty scent of the breezes, much like everyone in the castle, but she realizes, then, that this is what she wanted to do since she first saw him. Just have him a little closer. To what end, she’s not quite sure. “May I?” He asks, his palm up as an offering.

Sansa doesn’t utter another word; she just gives him her hand.

He brings her hand to his mouth and places a soft kiss on the back of her fingers. “I’ve often wondered where you’ve been, my lady,” he says, “and all things considered, I’m glad that you’re alive and well.”

She finally breathes out, raggedly, slowly, and nods. This moment doesn’t cover any of it, the infinite silences and apologies and explanations and questions between them. This moment certainly doesn’t fix the situation between her King and his Queen, or the impending death threatening them in all fronts, but for now, it is a step, and even a small step already means leaving something behind. Sansa feels this old, hurting thing letting go of her soul. It’s good to be able to stop pretending he doesn’t matter. It’s _tiring_ to avoid him. “I’m glad you’re alive and well, too,” she murmurs. And means it.

He leaves her, after, but not before they can spend a long moment like that: Sansa refuses to let go of his hand, and he brings their joined fingers to his chest in silence. She feels the steady beat of his heart, accidentally brushing her fingers over the cold metal of his badge, and they share a look, not of love - not yet - but of recognition: just on the brink of being together but not quite there. It is, after all, the place they’ve always called home.

  
  
  
**xi.**

The morning after brings its own surprises.

And they arrive early; Sansa and Brienne are invited to share the morning meal with the rest of Daenerys’ household, but just as they take their seats across Tyrion and Missandei, before the servants can bring their foods to the table, before they can begin to talk, before even the Queen can join them, one of the Unsullied come and rushes to Missandei, lowering his head and speaking to her in a foreign tongue.

Sansa frowns. Brienne, too. Tyrion looks like a man who has slept approximately one hour. “What is wrong?” He asks.

“A boat arrived at our shore,” Missandei says. The unsullied keeps muttering in her ear. “A sellsword wants to speak with the Queen.”

Tyrion curls one eyebrow. “A sellsword?” He says, with a heavy tone.

The unsullied just keeps whispering. “He says he brought a gift to the Queen,” Missandei translates to Tyrion. “He says he's here with the man who killed her father.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I will not submit myself to the ordeal of watching season 7 and 8 again, so please if I'm forgetting any detail let me know because from what I remember it was overall a mess)


	2. Lions on the Seashore

  
  
  


_No, I'm not afraid to disappear_

  
  
  


**i.**

After the morning meeting with Sansa and Daenerys, Tyrion finds Varys and Melisandre talking in whispers, standing over one of the many cliffs among the towers of Dragonstone. From this point of view they can see the shore, the endless gray sea. The sky is covered in dense, dark clouds.

There’s a storm coming.

The pair turns toward the dwarf as he approaches. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but, my lord,” Tyrion looks at Varys. “The Queen demands your services.”

“I’m always available,” Varys says, in his oily voice. He shares a look with Melisandre, one of warning and silent goodbye. Tyrion has never seen her wearing anything but red; even her heart-shaped face can’t hide the glint of crimson in her eyes. He is pleased with her departure, though. He feels uneasy around the woman. If because she’s disturbingly beautiful, because she used to believe Stannis - _Stannis,_ of all people - was some kind of mythical hero or because he’s always suspicious of clergy people in general, regardless of the god involved, he can’t know for sure.

“Are you leaving, my lady?” Tyrion asks, feigning a polite disappointment.

It doesn’t work with Melisandre. “For your relief, yes, my lord,” she says, not smiling, and throws the red scarf around her neck. “The Lord of Light still has followers in this weird country. A brotherhood of men, awaiting for his signal. They are ready to fight against the darkness. So we must be, too.” She looks ahead and leaves.

Tyrion can’t help but turn around to watch her go. “What _is_ this woman,” he mutters.

Varys chuckles by his side. “You came to ask me for information about King's Landing.”

“Especifically, I came to ask if you know anything about Euron Greyjoy offering his fleet to my sister,” Tyrion completes. Makes a pause, thinking about the logic behind Sansa’s argument. “Indeed, everything you can offer about Cersei’s _allies_.” She has the Lannister army with her in the capital, that is sure. Are they enough? The City’s Watch is untrained and doesn’t count as true soldiers.

Varys gives one of his dramatic sighs. “You should know in advance that since Qyburn rose to power by Cersei’s side, it is much harder to get information about King’s Landing than it used to be. He corrupts my little birds to his own games.” That seems to frustrate the Spider immensely, as if his web of secrets were a higher honor than whatever Cersei is playing. “I can give you copious detail about the farthest North if you ask, but King’s Landing might pose a challenge, now. Still, I’ll work on it.”

“Speaking of the North,” the Hand says, clearing his throat. Before he can make another question, Varys sends him a mischievous glance, and a smile pulls the corner of his mouth.

“You want information about your wife.”

“She’s not my wife anymore,” Tyrion says. He’s not sure about the technicalities, but anyway. It doesn’t matter. It never mattered. That _ridiculous_ sham of a marriage. “She told me she had her last husband executed. For that, I imagine he must have been worse than me, though that would take a lot of effort,” he jokes, voice too edgy to comedy. “I should probably watch my back.”

But then Varys looks at him, with a pitiful look. “My lord, do you know _who_ was the lady’s last husband?”

“No.” He fidgets, ashamed of asking, but, “to be honest, I expected you would know.”

“Have you ever heard of Ramsay Snow?”

Tyrion squeezes his eyes. “A bastard?”

“ _Roose Bolton’s_ bastard,” Varys says, with a theatrical shudder. “A young man that could make Joffrey look like an amateur. He was known to hold to the old, forbidden practice of the Boltons of flaying his victims and took pleasure in all sorts of cruel games,” the Spider says, and carefully adds, “particularly with women.”

A cold wind plays about them. Tyrion shivers under his clothes. “Why did she-”

Varys shakes his bald head. “The best sources say that your wife arrived in the North in the company of Petyr Baelish. You’re a smart man, my lord. You can figure out the rest.”

Tyrion closes his eyes, tries not to think of- anything. Anything at all. “But she executed him.”

“Fed him to his own hounds after she took Winterfell back. The Knights of the Vale answered her call to battle.”

A part of him, the Hand part, is creating a thread linking the North to the Vale, and both to Sansa Stark, his former wife and current guest.

But the other part of him, a smaller, hidden one, the part he is trying to bury down and deep, but that is stubborn as _hell_ and that is very much still married, imagines Sansa feeding her abuser to his dogs and thinks _well. Good for her._

  
  
  
**ii.**

He thinks about the girl Sansa once was, outliving Joffrey and his father, now commanding armies and speaking in the name of her King and executing her enemies with their own weapons of cruelty. He thinks that her sharp tongue and the fire beneath her icy gaze, now, are echoes of a lifetime ago: _I’ll pray for your safe return, my lord, just as I pray for the King’s_.

Her face was impassive as she watched the map; she studied it as if it were a board (he knew, because he did the same), he could hear the engineers of her mind running. The colorful dresses of her youth, now, are gone. She was dressed in pitch black that morning, when Daenerys summoned her in private. Her braid fell to the side, over her left shoulder. It made her look like a warrior.

Sansa _survived,_ of course. That is not surprising at all. Tyrion always knew she would.

  
  
  
**iii.**

Here is what is surprising, above every imaginable scenario: Ser Bronn of Blackwater, bringing Jaime Lannister, widely known as the Kingslayer but who Tyrion just likes to call _brother_ , to the shores of Dragonstone as his captive, in the morning the storm that had been breeding in the skies decides to finally break through.

Tyrion stands on the lowest step of the dais, at the Queen’s right, Missandei and Grey Worm at her left. Varys, Lady Sansa and her sworn-shield Brienne stand at Tyrion’s right, not over the dais but still far away enough from the arriving pair for it to feel like a trial. The other guests and the rest of the household probably haven't woken up yet, since it is an ungodly early hour. They hadn’t had the chance to have a proper breakfast when the boat came to shore. There was a third man on the boat, a merchant from King’s Landing who knew how to sail safely at night, someone who expected to be paid for it.

“I found this fucker headed North, alone atop his horse and disguised,” Bronn explains, when asked. Jaime stands by his side, beard full and dirty, his clothes worn and hair wet, mouth closed but head raised. Kovarro holds his arm, despite the fact Jaime has shackles around his elbows. “He’d promised me a castle and a wife, and I assumed that without his crazy sister he couldn’t grant me either.” Bronn gives Daenerys a smirk. “So I brought him to you for the same price. A wife and a castle.”

“Did you leave Cersei?” Tyrion asks, skeptically. Jaime looks at him with barely contained resentment, as if he had been intentionally avoiding the sight of his little brother, well-dressed, neat and wearing the pin of Hand of a foreign Queen. “Why?”

“She blew the Sept of Baelor,” Jaime says, resolutely, as if it couldn’t be any more obvious. “I don’t know if you remember, but I’ve already killed a king over something similar.”

“I certainly remember, Kingslayer.” Daenerys speaks directly to him, for the first time. “I suppose you didn’t kill your sister, though. That would be too low, even for you,” she laments. Tyrion had never seen so much contempt in her eyes before.

“You’re mistaken, Your Grace. _Kin_ slaying is not below us, Lannisters,” Jaime says. His words are directed to the Queen on the stony throne, but Tyrion feels their blow. “But no. I didn’t kill her.”

“And what exactly were you looking for in the North?” Sansa asks; Tyrion observes her face. She has the smallest crease curling one of her eyebrows, and nothing else reveals her feelings.

Indeed. That was a most excellent question.

What the hell was Jaime looking for in the North?

His older brother changes his weight from one feet to the other. He looks tired and old. Outside, the rain intensifies, the noise against the stones and ceiling echoing through the emptiness of the Throne Room. “I made a vow to your mother to keep you and your sister safe,” Jaime says, though it isn't much of an explanation. Tyrion has the clear, lucid sensation he is avoiding something. Or someone.

“Well, you’ve failed spectacularly,” Sansa snaps.

“He didn’t, my lady,” Brienne intervenes. He had almost forgotten the sound of her voice, had forgotten she was there at all, though she was difficult to ignore. “It was Ser Jaime who armoured me, gave me this sword and sent me to you, because of the vow he made to your lady mother. Without him, I could never have saved you.”

“You probably could,” Jaime mutters.

“He defended me in Harrenhal when Locke’s men tried to force themselves on me,” Brienne continues, her voice crisp and clear. “He lost his hand for it. He jumped in the bear pit to save me, unarmed, for I was given nothing but a wooden sword to fight the beast.”

“In a _bear pit_?” Sansa repeats, shocked.

When Tyrion spots Jaime, he is failing miserably to hide the respect upon his face as he looks at the giant woman beside Sansa, if he’s trying at all. “He’s a man of honor,” Brienne says, matter-of-factly.

“What kind of honorable man kills his own King, whom he is sworn to defend?” Daenerys says. She sounds not like a Queen but like a daughter, and Tyrion feels each muscle in his body tensing in response. The room certainly feels it, too, the weight of all the tales. _Kingslayer. Man without honor. He seated upon the Iron Throne, his King’s body at his feet, his sword dripping fresh blood. He was smirking when they found him,_ they say.

Brienne doesn’t hesitate. She makes a pause, but even that seems firm, and her eyes never leave Jaime’s. “There’s more to this story, Your Grace.”

“Brienne,” Jaime murmurs, begs, “ _don’t._ ”

“I don’t see how there could be more,” Daenerys cuts off. “Ser Bronn, you shall be handsomely rewarded for your gift. Justice has waited too long and it is a shame on the Seven Kingdoms that such a vile crime has been left unpunished so many years.” She stares at the Dothraki holding Jaime captive, “Kovarro, take Ser Jaime outside.”

“Your Grace,” Tyrion turns around, eyes on Daenerys. He can’t help the begging tone of his words. “Do not execute him.”

A thunder resonates through the sky, its vibration felt in the stones around them. Tyrion tries to steady his voice.

He cannot let his brother die.

Daenerys raises one eyebrow. The anger he earlier saw in her eyes directed at Jaime are fully placed upon him, now. _Stormborn_ is her name for a reason. “Give me one single reason not to. I remind you that him being your brother is no reason.”

Tyrion swallows hard, dry. “He just came from King’s Landing,” Tyrion says, “in a moment we need all the information about Cersei we can get.”

“We have _Varys_ ,” Daenerys retorts, merciless.

“Varys’ web has been dismantled by Qyburn, and the information we need might take more time than what we have at our disposal,” Tyrion argues. “Jaime has been part of Cersei’s _council_ for months. He will talk.” It takes all Tyrion’s strength not to turn around to look into his brother’s eye, but he prays that Jaime will listen to the plea, to the _order_ beneath the surface of his words. _Hate me all you want, but do not die for her. If you won’t live for her, then do not dare to die for her._ “I can make him talk.”

“And what if he lies?” She inquires.

Tyrion rolls his eyes, trying to appear more confident than how he feels. “He’s my brother. I _know_ when he’s lying.” _And he knows when I am,_ Tyrion thinks, doesn’t say it.

The hot fury in the eyes of his Queen doesn’t subside, but she makes a pause, thinking, staring at Jaime Lannister, the man who killed her father, standing in front of her. “Missandei, prepare a room for Ser Bronn,” she says, at last. “As for the Kingslayer,” she looks at Grey Worm, almost _bored_ , “take him to the dungeons.”

  
  
  
**iv.**

Bronn is given a comfortable, spacious room, with a big mattress and fire already burning in the hearth. When Tyrion comes into his chamber, without knocking, he finds the sellsword putting on a tunic, skin still damp from his bath at the corner. Jaime’s golden hand lays over the made featherbed.

“You,” Tyrion walks angrily toward the center of the room, taking his brother’s accessory and pointing a finger to the man, “are the greatest motherfucker I’ve ever known. And you knew my father.”

“Good to see you too,” Bronn says, tying his breeches, his eyes on the golden implement. “I’mma need that.”

“So will Jaime.”

“I need to pay the sailor.”

“Fuck the sailor, and fuck you.” Tyrion sits over the edge of the mercenary’s bed, tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I ask you to train with him, and you sell him to his enemies.”

Bronn scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I knew you were Hand to the Targaryen girl,” he says. “As if you and your big tongue would ever let your brother die.”

Tyrion narrows his eyes. “I’d rather you didn’t bet with our lives again, at least not when the risks are that big and the odds are not in our favour.”

“Bet with people’s lives is what I do for a living,” Bronn answers, crossing his arms, reaching for the flagon of wine - a true _rarity_ in the castle, “and what good is a bet if the stakes are low?”

Despite himself, Tyrion snorts a laughter through his nose. “You know, I am unreasonably glad to see you alive.”

Bronn smirks, drinks a deep gulp from the wine and walks toward the bed, towering over Tyrion as he stands in front of him. “I’m glad to be alive too, m’lord.” Tyrion just chuckles in response, and accepts the flagon when it’s given to him. “Was that Sansa Stark on the dais? As in _your wife_ Sansa Stark?”

Tyrion drinks. “Yes,” he replies. “Yes, it was.”

  
  
  
**v.**

The storm is pounding hard and fast at night when Tyrion goes down the helical stairs that lead to the dungeons. For his surprise, the stony walls are warm to the touch, which is a relief, really. There are two Unsullied guarding the first passage, and two more at the next one, the proper door that opens to a corridor with many cells. Only the last one is locked.

It takes only a too-long stare for the Unsullied to clear the way to Tyrion. (He thinks he’ll never get used to how _good_ this feels, the power of opening doors without uttering a single word. Better than wine.) Jaime is sitting on the stony bench against the wall, shackles around his feet and left hand, one bucket at the corner of the stinky cell. There are no windows, but with the fickle glow of the candle in his hand, Tyrion can see dark bags under his eyes, his cheeks hollowed out. Tyrion opens the locker and comes inside, sitting by his side in complete silence. For some reason, Jaime doesn’t flinch away from him.

There’s so much to say and yet, he can’t form a single sentence. _I am sorry about the children. I’m so glad you left her. Will you ever forgive me?_

Instead, “I didn’t know the walls were warm down here.”

“This is better than Robb’s camp,” Jaime says.

Tyrion grimaces, uncomfortable. _Better?_ He remembers being imprisoned for Joffrey’s murder, Jaime sitting across him on the ground. _Are you really asking me if I’d kill your son?_ , he’d said, and Jaime-

_are you really asking me if I’d kill my brother?_

Tyrion wants to reach out and hold his left hand. Doesn’t. Instead, he places the golden hand over Jaime’s lap. “I thought you’d want it back.”

When he sighs, he looks older than his years, though he’s not a young knight anymore. Tyrion recognizes frustration, tiredness in the sound. He holds the lump where Jaime’s hand used to be, fastens the golden hand back to his body with a metallic _click_. “Thank you,” his brother murmurs, shifting his right wrist, and then pauses. “Hand of a Targaryen queen. It suits you.”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Tyrion asks.

“I’m just saying,” Jaime shrugs.

“I meant what I said upstairs,” Tyrion murmurs. “I intend to keep you alive. If you know something, anything-”

“Leave me out of your schemes, Tyrion,” Jaime snaps. “I didn’t leave Cersei to fall into another game.”

“Well, I can’t do it, can I,” Tyrion replies. “And I won’t let you die to protect _her._ ” They both make another pause, important, long. Jaime breaths in a deep gulf of air. Tyrion asks, voice low, _soft_ , “what happened?”

He hates Jaime’s laughter in response. “What happened is that our sister is not so unlike Aerys Targaryen, after all,” he says. “Do you know how Tommen died?”

Tyrion closes his eyes. The pain is a hollowness. He feels it under his left ribs, feels it in his throat. “No.”

“He _jumped_ from his window,” he answers. Tyrion holds back a sob. For Jaime’s sake, mostly. “ _Uncle Kevan_ was in the Sept, did you know that? He confronted Cersei every chance he had in the Council and she decided that was enough to kill him.”

Tyrion shakes his head. “I didn’t know,” he says.

The older lion breathes out, dragged and slow, and rests his head back against the wall. “She blamed me,” he murmurs, eyes closed. “She blamed me for Tommen’s death, blamed me because I was not there to save him. And I was away, because _she_ ordered me to the Riverlands.” He chuckles under his breath, dry and sour. “She said I’m the worst Kingsguard that has ever lived. I think she’s right.”

The pain is hollow; the anger, though. The anger burns with a thousand suns. “She’s mad, Jaime.”

“I _know._ ”

Tyrion looks at him, his knight in shining armor, now dressed in worn-out clothes. “I know you have not forgiven me,” he says, “and I won’t ask it of you now. But if you know what it is like to leave her,” he says, like a man stepping on a mine-field, “then you know what I felt when I went to father that night.”

The first blow. “This is _not_ the same,” Jaime retorts, voice like swords. “I didn’t _kill_ her, Tyrion, even at her worst. You could have escaped to freedom. Damn, I _planned_ your escape.”

They’re never getting over this, Tyrion understands, then. There’s no getting over this.

“Still,” Tyrion urges, “if you know that not _everything_ is about family-”

“- if not then why are you trying to save _me_ -”

“- because I _love you_ ,” Tyrion clutches Jaime’s chin, hard, bruising. If Jaime allows him, it is certain out of kindness, too; but Tyrion is so angry. He doesn’t even know at _what_. “I love you, you stupid fool. You have always been my only family in this miserable world, and I can’t let you die. I don’t care if you hate me, I can’t. So if I have to force those secrets out of you, Jaime, may the gods help me but I’ll do it,” he says, voice trembling with rage. “Don’t make me do it. _Please_.”

Jaime looks at him through the half-hood of his eyes. His left hand wraps around Tyrion’s wrist, pushing it away with more gentleness than he deserves. “I missed the last Council meeting, but I heard her speaking to Qyburn about an army of mercenaries from Essos. They were discussing the Iron Bank representative that was coming to Westeros. I don’t know if it bore fruit.”

Tyrion breathes out, relieved. He can work with that. He draws away with a nod; his mind already starts to plan, to think, but he forces it to hold back for a moment, just so he can- “thank you,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”

He’s afraid to look Jaime in the eye when he leaves, locking the door of the cell again. His brother is a shadow, an eerie, confusing dream behind bars.

  
  
  
**vi.**

Lord Tyrion told her it was dark downstairs, so Brienne makes sure to take a candle on her way. The small parchment sealed with wax by the Hand of the Queen is her guarantee, her key.

Lady Sansa told her it was a bad idea when Brienne asked for her permission, but her ladyship didn’t stop her, either. Her voice was cold as she turned away to the open balcony, to the heavy rain. “It is not my sanction you need,” she’d said. “Ask the Queen.” Lady Sansa had hesitated, then, and smoothed her skirts. “Or the Lord Hand.”

Brienne was not stupid. She went to Lord Tyrion, who, surprisingly, didn’t ask many questions. Now, though, taper in hand, sword at her hip, listening to the noise of the rusty door being opened to her, she feels like the biggest of fools. Her stomach drops, cold and heavy, in a way that not even battles can provoke.

Ser Jaime raises his head. He is sitting on the ground, against the Wall. His beard covers half of his face, he looks thin beneath his common clothes and his hair is so dirty that the blond of it has practically vanished; he is the most beautiful man Brienne has ever seen. She has the lucid memory of the Riverlands, weeks on the road. “Brienne,” he says. And then smiles. “I didn’t expect to find you here, so far South.”

(“ _I found this fucker headed North-_ ”)

“I say the same,” Brienne says. The unsullied remains at the entrance of the door when she steps inside. “Actually, I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

“It’s a good surprise,” he agrees, voice friendly. The silliest part of her thinks him kind. “I wish in better circumstances, of course. This is too familiar.” He cocks his head. “What are you and Lady Stark doing here?”

“Gathering allies and dragonglass for the War against the dead.”

He looks at her for a long moment, and Brienne thinks he will laugh. He doesn’t. “If it weren’t _you_ saying those words,” he mutters to himself, shaking his head, and doesn’t finish the sentence.

Brienne, however, doesn’t want to think of the dead now. “You look thin.”

“My captor was not as kind as you,” he says with a shrug and a smirk. “Really, it’s just the optical illusion. Bronn gave me larger clothes in an attempt to disguise me; I’m not as bad as I look.”

“I know,” she says. She knows. The shape of his body, the size of his true clothes, how they fit upon his muscles; she knows. She thinks that he looks _amazing_ , that leaving Cersei gave him the best of the looks. “You were headed North.”

It is not a question; it’s not what they do. Not _like this._ Her silence is his freedom. He can talk. And he can not talk. And either will be fine. “I made a vow to keep two Stark girls safe, and only one made it home,” he gives her a mindless shrug. “I had a mind to convince you to go after the other. Or perhaps serve the one we already found.” He sighs. “I didn’t know what I was thinking, I just...”

He trails off. _We_ , he says, and Brienne’s heart crushes under the weight of her hope. She tries to remember herself that Ser Jaime is a man of his word, that he had vows to keep the Stark girls safe, that his duty called him North. “You just...?” She asks. (Gently.)

He looks at her in that way that makes her feel anxious. “Where would I go but to you, Brienne? I had no one else.”

 _You have me_ , she thinks. _You’ll always have me._ Thinks she should just say it.

Instead, “your brother will not let you die here.”

Jaime looks away from her, ahead of him. His smirk festers, like a dirty wound. “Tyrion thinks himself too smart.”

“Lady Sansa says he is.”

“Brains don’t win dragonfire,” he says.

“Ser _Jaime_ ,” she scolds, glancing at the soldiers sworn to the Targaryen Queen.

But Jaime only chuckles. “There it is,” he says, voice warm. His eyes, full of mischief, find hers again. “I was starting to think you’d never say my name, Brienne.”

She blushes profusely, thankful for the dim light to hide it. “Your tongue will cost your head one day,” she mutters, displeased. Jaime just laughs again, low, quiet, under his breath.

She sits by his side. There’s a safe distance between them, but for a moment, for now, he’s alive. It’s the happiest she’s been in months. She doesn’t think of Cersei, doesn’t think of the War in the North, doesn’t think of anything but his solid, familiar presence.

“Thank you for coming,” he murmurs. Brienne doesn’t answer. She knows that he knows, already.

  
  
  
**vii.**

(Yes; Tyrion loves Daenerys, as do most of her followers. His faith is clear on his face and in the way he speaks of her and to her. And yes; there are her dragons. His most forgotten dreams, hopes of his childhood. But the people who think he’s in _love_ with her got it wrong.

He wouldn’t confess it to anyone, hardly can admit it to himself; but a beautiful, fierce, stubborn woman, made to be Queen, prone to madness only because she was made for greater things? It’s Cersei he seeks in Daenerys, like the other side of a coin; a sister that blood could never give him and a worthy, better Queen. It’s the reason he’ll fight by the Dragon Queen’s side until the end, even after his faith has faded-

until she gives in.)

  
  
  
**viii.**

The storm lasts days on a roll.

Daenerys thinks all their waiting is a waste of time; Ellaria and her Sand Snakes agree, while Yara and Theon Greyjoy show more cautiousness. In Council, Tyrion tries to argue with them that they’re not waiting on nothing; they’re expecting information. Cersei plans to buy an army of mercenaries, but the mines of Casterly Rock have run low. They still don’t know _when_ she is expecting them, or how she is supposed to pay for them. They shouldn’t siege King’s Landing knowing that an army could arrive from Essos at any moment. And they can’t siege King’s Landing without the certainty that Blackwater Bay is free.

The men Sansa has brought with her from the North, though a small party of fifty, work tirelessly on the mines, before the sun rises and after it sets, whether it rains or not. From the highest balconies of Dragonstone, he spots her walking to them in the middle of the morning and the afternoon, giving them clean water and bread and sitting with them while they rest. She reminds him of Daenerys, easily caressing the mane of the horses of her khalasar.

It occurs to Tyrion, as Sansa comes back to the castle and her men, to their task, that no group of people would work so hard, so relentlessly, without a good payment- or a good cause.

Exactly one week after Jaime’s arrival, the last day of the storm, Varys comes to Tyrion with a satisfied grin. “Euron Greyjoy has asked for Cersei’s hand in marriage. He offered his whole fleet as a wedding gift. His ships already occupy the entirety of Blackwater Bay.”

“How many ships?”

“One thousand,” Varys answers. When he sees Tyrion’s face falling, he quickly adds, “an approximate number, my lord.”

Tyrion should be happy to be right, but really. There’s little to celebrate.

  
  
  
**ix.**

Two weeks after Jaime’s arrival, just as the sun is about to set, Varys receives another raven from his little birds.

Highgarden has been occupied by Lannister men, led by Randyll Tarly, the new Warden of the South. Olenna Tyrell has been captured and is on her way to King’s Landing, where a walk of shame and public execution by beheading await her for her treason.

  
  
  
**x.**

Daenerys dismisses Varys, and sends word to each of her advisors so they can meet in the early morning, but Tyrion is summoned to the Council room that same night.

She’s impatient. He can sense it in the sound of her steps, pacing around the table as she stares intently at the map. “We should attack King’s Landing as soon as possible,” she says.

“That is precisely what we should _not_ do,” Tyrion retorts. His head aches and his hips hurt more than usual. “My sister is counting on our impulsivity. Rest assured she’s more ready for this battle than we are.”

“How so?” Daenerys says. Her voice is, like her name, a storm. “We have three dragons, armies, the Ironborn fleet,” she takes one of the dragon-shaped pieces on the board, feeling its weight in her small hand. “Your sister is fearless and shameless in her attacks. She’s got one of our allies as her prisoner. We should go to Olenna’s rescue and take the Iron Throne in the process. I don’t understand what we're waiting for.”

Of all the possible courses of action, nothing could excite Tyrion less than to save the life of Olenna Tyrell. She can rot, for all he cares. But he’s acting in Daenerys’ best interest, so: “If I know my sister well enough, Olenna is as good as dead. Cersei didn’t capture her as a bait for us. She captured Olenna because she is a traitor and because she has a mind to exterminate House Tyrell. As for us,” he proceeds, “we’re waiting because we don’t want to kill civilians,” Tyrion reminds her. “We’re waiting because our fleets, however sufficient to carry us through the waters and to attack one or two shores, are not enough to defeat _Euron Greyjoy_ ’s fleet.” He analyzes the map before him. The North seems to occupy so much more space since Sansa’s arrival. “And because we are considering the possibility of an army of corpses that might turn all this war into a child play.”

“And what do you suggest we do, then, my lord Hand?” Daenerys asks, with a frustration that borderlines anger.

After a moment of pondering, Tyrion takes the dragon from her hand and places it over Highgarden again. “I suggest we take the Reach back,” he says. “The Dothraki are unmatched on the open field, and the Lannister forces are commanded by a turn-cloak,” he shrugs. “If we assume for a moment that Sansa is correct and we have a terrible, long winter ahead of us, we cannot afford to lose the Reach. They’re responsible for two-thirds of the stock of grains in the country. Even King’s Landing buys from them.” He stares, intently, to his Queen. “If you want to starve Cersei, it’s the first basic step. Besides, we’ve been wondering how my dear sister planned to pay for her army, and her move to Highgarden might be our answer. They are, at the moment, the richest Kingdom of Westeros.”

“So do you suggest we kill your own men?” Daenerys asks, crossing her arms behind her bosom, her pale eyes narrowing. She’s always testing the loyalty of her allies like that, picking at the chords in their limbs and minds and bellies, looking for signs of betrayal at the smallest hesitation.

Targaryens. No wonder his father eventually lost his patience. “Well, a battle is a battle,” he says with a shrug. “But I suggest we focus on killing, or capturing, their commander, Randyll Tarly. I believe we can force them to surrender.” He looks at the irregular stony shore of the West, empty of pieces, and takes a lion forgotten outside the map. “And they are not _my_ men by any practical means. They are Cersei’s.” His gaze finds his Queen’s face again, both defiant and careful. “Or they could be Jaime’s.”

The anger, boiling just underneath her skin, comes to surface. “Please, tell me you’re not saying what I think you’re saying.”

“Let’s be honest, Your Grace,” Tyrion says, shifting the lion in the palm of his hand. “I am a kinslayer and a dwarf. To every man and woman in this country, I live a cursed life, by birth and by my deeds. The West is not going to happily follow me just because I asked nicely.”

“If you _take_ what is rightfully yours,” Daenerys retorts, “they’ll have no choice but to follow.”

Tyrion tries to conceal his worry with that line of reasoning. “Even so,” he offers, cautiously, “we _have_ Jaime in our grasp. He has been stripped from his position as Kingsguard, so he can inherit lands again. He has turned against Cersei, and he’s known and commanded these men for years. They fear Cersei, for sure, because they’re not stupid,” Tyrion puts the lion over the West, “but their _loyalty_ belongs to Jaime.” He stares at Daenerys again and sees the doubt planted in her eyes, decides to nurture it: “you know as well as I do he’s too valuable a captive to be killed. You wouldn’t let him live so long, if you didn’t know.”

“I let him live because I care about what you say,” Daenerys replies. Her words are sharp but her eyes are soft.

“Oh, I’m touched,” Tyrion mockingly puts a hand over his heart. “But it is time to put him to some use. Send me and my brother to the Reach with your Dothraki. If we succeed, we’ll ensure the Reach for you: their food, their gold, their men _and_ the Lannister men who now occupy it.”

“And after that?” Daenerys says, stubbornly. “We take King’s Landing?”

Tyrion rests back against his chair. He looks over the map again.

“Allow me to be frank,” he asks.

“Have you been lying all this time?” Daenerys asks.

Tyrion laughs at her paranoia. But then his laughter slowly dies as he considers her, standing over the table, the fire in the hearth throwing her shadow over Westeros. He crosses his arms over his chest. “I think we should go North.”

“Because Sansa Stark ordered us to?” Daenerys mutters, with a subtle rolling of her eyes. He bites his lower lip so not to smirk. “Even if her fantastic tales are correct, if we follow the northerner’s lead, we’ll turn away from your sister and give her a chance to stab us on our backs. All our efforts will be for naught. There’s no point in fighting for the Reach only to leave it behind.”

“We can work to make sure that will not happen,” Tyrion offers, in his most soothing voice. “But if Sansa is wrong about the threat of the dead, we’ll go North and negotiate their surrender with their King, the man who can effectively bend the knee to you.” He walks around the table until he’s standing over the North and their lonely, quiet wolf. “And if she is right,” his voice grows darker, somber, “well. If she’s right, then we need to go without further questions.”

  
  
  
**xi.**

Tyrion knows that Daenerys needs an audience because she is laying a trap.

She doesn’t trust his brother, and she doesn’t believe he will hold to his end of the proposal. She is counting him, and therefore the West, as part of her losses, or rather part of unconquered territory, as annexed to King’s Landing. What she really wants is a witness, or _many_ witnesses, that can attest to her vow of faith, so when she burns him alive for treason - for the nature of a Kingslayer is, always, treason - when he breaks another vow, the realms shall know that Targaryen are dragons. And she may be merciful once, but not twice.

She brings him to the Council meeting in the morning, among her allies.

She stands at the head of the table, over the North; Tyrion by her right, Missandei and Grey Worm at her left. Varys, Lady Sansa and Brienne of Tarth sit at the eastern border of the map - King’s Landing and Dragonstone. Theon, Yara and Ellaria contour the South of the map. Jaime comes into the room in chains still, guided by Qhoro to sit alone at the western border of the table.

If he is confused about the reason for his presence in a royal meeting, he doesn’t let it show. He’s thinner than he was when he arrived, a week ago. Tyrion feels the urge to take him to a proper chamber, to feed him, to pour a bucket of hot water over his dirty hair. Lannisters were not made for dungeons. Jaime, golden and beautiful, even less.

But he is no less lion now, even in dirty clothes and with a badly kept beard, so he keeps his head high. Daenerys barely spares him a glance, and starts talking as if he weren’t there at all. “As you know, Olenna has been taken prisoner to King’s Landing and Highgarden is occupied by Lannister forces,” she says. “Our next move is to the Reach. We aim to take it back.”

Ellaria raises one eyebrow. “And why is that a priority now?” She asks.

Jaime does not hide the contempt in his eyes as the woman speaks. Tyrion is not entirely sure he wouldn’t murder her with his own hands, were they not in shackles.

“Because we have good reason to believe Cersei needs the gold of Highgarden to pay for her army of mercenaries,” Tyrion says. He subtly looks at Sansa, in time to catch her already looking at him. She lowers her gaze as soon as their eyes meet. A lifetime ago, he’d think her shy, or afraid. “And because we have a long winter ahead of us. We need their food.”

Ellaria scoffs, unaccustomed to the very idea of winter to consider it dangerous. “And their men,” Daenerys intervenes, before it can become a discussion. “We’ll march with the Dothraki. You’ll stay here, at Dragonstone. If we succeed, then I’ll send you word,” she says, looking at the Dornish woman. “Yara shall take you back to Dorne, and then you’ll gather the Dornish forces.”

Tyrion finds Sansa’s gaze again. This time, she doesn’t look away.

Daenerys gives the room a second of silence, and then, proceeds. “The Lannister army is numerous and disciplined, but it is now commanded by a turn-cloak and an opportunist, Randyll Tarly,” Daenerys proceeds. “The Tarly-Lannister men are those we’ll face on the battlefield. Should some of them survive, which we expect they do, I plan to offer them my mercy, if they’ll bend the knee to our campaign.” Only then her eyes settle on Jaime. “For the consideration that I have for your brother and the kind words said about you by your friends, I extend my mercy to you, too, Ser Jaime. You’ll be given a second chance. Convince your men to abandon your sister and join me. Give me the West, and I’ll grant you the royal pardon for your vile deeds.”

Jaime is his brother. Tyrion loves him with the softest part of his worn-out heart, a part that neither Cersei nor Tywin could beat down, that neither Shae or Tysha could ever sour. Jaime is no twin to him, but he is blood enough for Tyrion to know when he’s lying.

And in that moment, Jaime stares, face serious, to the Targaryen Queen, emerald eyes solid as Casterly Rock itself, and Tyrion knows he is not lying. In a dreadful, rare moment, Jaime reminds him of Tywin. “I’ll do it,” Jaime says. He raises his chained elbows, the metallic sound making Daenerys flinch. “It’ll be easier without these, though.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> · If you're around, please say hi in the comments we want to know you and do season 8 bashing together <3 I'll start: why would Jaime stay with Cersei after she goes full Aerys. why would you burn food when winter has come. WHY
> 
> · the title of this chapter comes from a poem by Robert Bly called "A home in the dark grass" and that I will use to *exhaustion* at every chance I get :)
> 
> · I think book!Tyrion sometimes slips into my writing (just a little) even when we are in a show-canon setting and I apologize 
> 
> · This fanfic is truly me being pure Jaime Lannister trash LOL You can have a little Jaime/Dany antagonism. As a treat


	3. The Hand of (a) Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to thank Lilium_convallium for all the information about travelling time in medieval times, and overall information about anything medieval related <3 (and because she made a meme about me WITH TYRION IN IT!!!)

  
  
  


_Out in the park we watch the sunset  
talking on a rusty swing set;  
after a while you went quiet and I got mean_

  
  
  


**i.**

Jaime is freed from his shackles and led away by Grey Worm; Yara and Ellaria leave, their arms laced, Theon following right behind; Missandei and Varys, too, leave together. Even Brienne of Tarth murmurs in Sansa’s ear and leaves the room. Only then the Lady of Winterfell speaks. “Your Grace,” she asks, voice demure and hands clasped behind her back. Her dress is blue, a dark shade, almost black, but whenever her body shifts minimally, it catches the light in lighter tones; it’s like she wears the night for clothes, right in the middle of the morning. The fabric also brings out the blue of her eyes, her gaze now inscrutable as she stares at the Queen. “I’d like your permission to accompany you and your armies in your endeavor.”

Daenerys frowns one of her eyebrows. “I don’t see why that would be necessary, my lady. Your men are at work here, in Dragonstone.”

“My men know of their duties,” Sansa replies, firm but respectful. “They don’t need me to teach their work to them.”

“Still,” Daenerys insists, “what is there for you on the continent?”

Sansa makes a good impression of being confused with the question. “Your Grace, I am a Stark. The words of my House are the very reason for my mission here, in the South.” She blinks, just once. “Winter is now here. What kind of Stark would I be if I didn’t warn the realms about the danger that comes upon us and threatens us all, northmen and southmen alike?”

Tyrion stares at Sansa in wonder, and almost forgets to pay attention to the inflection of her words. Northerners are known to be direct and objective in their speech, but Sansa spent too many years in King’s Landing; he can see the concession in the eyes of his Queen before she speaks it out loud. “I see,” the Targaryen says. “Very well, Lady Sansa. I won’t keep you from your duty. You’re welcome to join us aboard.”

Sansa smiles, small and pretty. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

After Daenerys dismisses the northern lady, she says to him, her eyes on the open door, “I want you to keep an eye on her.”

Tyrion smirks. “Your Grace,” he answers, “I’ve been doing just that since she first laid her feet on this island.”

“Good,” Daenerys says with a nod. “Then keep doing it. I don’t trust her.”

  
  
  
**ii.**

She’s beautiful.

Sansa, that is. She’s beautiful and therefore, the mission to keep an eye on her is the easiest he’s ever been tasked with, while in the exercise of the job.

It’s only a two-day trip by waters from Dragonstone to Rook’s Rest, and from there, another two-day trip until the point where the Goldroad meets Blackwater Rush. They’ll be dangerously close to King’s Landing, and so Tyrion can’t find rest the night before they leave the island - or the night after. The swaying of the Ironborn’s ship is nothing like travelling the Narrow Sea inside a box; it’s not the swing of the waters that causes him nausea, but everything else: the tale that brought Sansa so far South. The animosity between Daeneyrs and Sansa, Daenerys and Jaime, Daenerys and everyone else who didn’t enthusiastically defend her birth-right. His mad sister, like a giant, dense cloud above his head standing in the middle of the sunlight. He’s been spending so many hours looking at maps of the Crownlands that the contour of Blackwater Bay, the roads leading to King’s Landing, the main keeps and cities surrounding it, the plains and the mountains and every other geographical feature in between, all are clear in his mind’s eye now, as he lies awake in his bed, planning escape routes, or surprise attacks. For Daenerys and her armies, but also for his brother, if needed. Jaime has been given new clothes, the right to travel without chains, a voice in Daenerys’ council as long as he’s being _tested_. They haven’t talked since Tyrion visited him in the dungeons.

Deciding that sleeping is most certainly a lost cause, he gets up, putting on his cloak and boots to breathe in pure air, a breeze that doesn't smell of smoke. The wind hits him hard and cold, and he’s just realized he forgot to put on his gloves when he finds Sansa on the decks. It’s when realization dawn on him of how _beautiful_ she is.

The sound of the waves is soothing, up here, and somewhere in the night sky, Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion are flying, watching over them like guardians or weapons, depending on the side of the observer. Sansa is standing alone on the deck, leaning slightly over the rails, and moonlight kisses her face and paints her silver. Her hair is wild in the wind, and she’s covered in her usual black clothes. She’s made for the night and is used to the darkness, this new Sansa, this stranger. Her cheeks are covered in tears, their wetness catching the pale light and shining, as if she’s crying diamonds. Her lips are pressed against each other and her face is distorted by her effort to keep silent. And even so, she’s _gorgeous_ , a goddess among mortals. They live in a world in which dragons came alive; priestesses can see the future in the flames and conjure shadows to do their killing; allegedly, dead men rose from their graves. He wouldn’t be surprised if he found out, by the end of it all, that Sansa had been a goddess all along. His first idiotic instinct speaks louder and faster than his mind. “My lady?” He calls out.

Sansa is startled by the sound of his voice. She turns around toward it, and as soon as she spots him, she takes a deep, ragged breath, drying her face clumsily with the back of her hand and taking a seat on the nearest bench against the rails. “My lord,” she greets, “I didn’t listen to your arrival; I’m sorry.”

He can’t help but smile sadly. He remembers her like that; apologizing, even though she has not done anything wrong. Some habits die hard. “No, I’m the one who should apologize,” he says, taking careful steps closer to her. “I’m sorry to disturb you. But are you fine? Is there something you need?”

It’s then that Tyrion notices the small parchment cramped between her fingers. “No,” she says, sniffing. And then she _smiles_. “I’m happy,” she whispers.

Tyrion wrinkles his brow, deep. “I don’t follow, my lady,” he murmurs, confused, taking the last step until he’s standing in front of her.

“A raven came from the North, from Jon,” she says, “Missandei gave me this letter right before we left Dragonstone. But I didn’t want to read it before our departure. I didn’t want to give myself a chance to look back, or give up.” And then she starts _chuckling._ “And I was right. I think if we weren’t already in this ship, I would have convinced Theon to take me back home right away. My sister is alive, Tyrion,” she mumbles, and her chuckling turns into pure lighter, pure sunlight. “Arya. Arya is alive and home and safe.”

“My lady,” without thought, he rushes forward and takes both of her hands in his. He is smiling before he realizes it. “Really?”

And her laughter turns into sobs, and her tears come back, too. “Yes, really,” Sansa whispers, “and I spent so many years telling myself that she was dead, because I didn’t want to hope, but I always knew in my heart that she was alive. How could I survive and she not?” She doesn’t mind cleaning her face anymore, letting her tears fall free. “But I didn’t think…” She sighs, biting her trembling lower lip. “Ah, my lord.”

Still so taken by the breathtaking sight of her happiness, Tyrion takes the last step separating them and brings Sansa into his embrace, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. He doesn’t regret it until it’s too late: Sansa hurries to circle her own arms around his body, her small hands clutching his back as she hides her face in the nook of his neck. At first, they tense, as if they’re both surprised with each other’s willingness, but then her body just relaxes as she cries against his shoulder, and Tyrion rests his cheek on her head, soothingly brushing her hair. He doesn’t say anything. Neither does she. He would never hurt her, and she probably knew that, if not anything else. And the bond they shared, though not one of love - not even one of friendship, either - was still a safe place amidst chaos, beyond enemy lines. Nothing is unfamiliar about their situation: Sansa is again far from home and family, and Tyrion still works for the people who threaten the freedom of her homeland. But he’d always be an island, of sorts, a reliable source of rest. It’s just that they were too scared, too bruised, too young before, but now Sansa knows how to recognize an enemy when she sees one. And, loyalties be damned, Tyrion is not her enemy.

He waits until her sobs have subsided and she’s quiet in his arms again. She sniffs one last time, chuckling awkwardly as she draws away. “I ruined your cloak,” she murmurs, apologetically.

“That is no matter,” Tyrion whispers, and moves to clean her wet cheek with the back of his bare hand. She lets him, and he gives her a gentle smile, smoothing the strands of auburn hair that went wild, tucking them behind her ear. “You deserve all the happiness in the world, my lady. I’m glad for good news in the middle of so many misfortunes.”

“I’m glad, too. I had almost forgotten how good news feel like,” she says, and Tyrion’s heart breaks in a thousand pieces. Sansa deserves better than what’s been given to her, but she’s made beautiful things out of her sorrow.

“Soon you’ll be home again,” he says; it sounds like a promise. _I promise you one thing, my lady: I’ll never hurt you. I won’t share your bed, not until you want me to. Soon you’ll be home again._ It binds him to his word. He feels it weighting in his chest, like he’s got another task in the list of his duties. He needs to take her home.

If Sansa felt the weight of vows, too, she doesn’t let it show. She squeezes his hand one last time and gets up. “I should get back to bed,” she says, crumpling the parchment in her hand. “We have a long day tomorrow.”

Tyrion steps back. “Of course,” he nods. “Have a good night, my lady.”

“Aren’t you coming?” She asks, politely, looking down to him.

“No. I’ll just breathe some fresh air.” Sansa narrows her eyes just so, and in the moonlight, Tyrion sees it again. The tenderness of her care. It’s been years, but he’s not unfamiliar with that look, too: they’ve shared quite a lot of them, over dinners with Joffrey, or his father, or Cersei. Her eyes scream, without a word, _are you fine? Should I be worried?_ “I’m fine,” he guarantees. “Just slepless.”

Sansa breathes out, relaxing her shoulders and nodding to him.

After she leaves, he stays on the deck, watching the sea catch the bright moon, thinking about debts.

  
  
  
**iii.**

There’s nothing to do but wait.

Once they reach the Goldroad, they settle camp, using the forests as their natural walls, and send Bronn, a man less likely to be spotted than an Unsullied or a Dothraki, to a survey. He comes back in three days. Randyll Tarly, his men and the Lannister men are almost two weeks away from their camp. They bring the gold with them, the food following behind with another smaller troop. Daenerys, always testing her allies, asks Jaime about what he thinks they should do next.

Jaime looks over the map spread across the improvised table. It’s made of leather and considerably smaller than the wooden table in Dragonstone, less detailed as well, but he is confident nevertheless. “Instead of heading to Highgarden, we should wait and attack the troops as they come to Blackwater Rush through the Goldroad,” he says, his finger sliding through the locations as he speaks. “After we’ve assured the troops and the gold, we can seize the food.” He looks all the way to the ancestral seat of the Tyrells, at least three-weeks away from them, using generous math. “And perhaps the Keep, but taking control of the castle itself is not as important as taking their men. Highgarden can wait.”

Daenerys spends a long moment pondering in silence, but she at last agrees with a silent nod. “Very well. Then we’ll battle here,” she says, her eyes on Qhoro, but not on Jaime. “Qhoro, you’ll lead your cavalry against the troops. But first, I’ll fly with Drogon to burn their heading lines. That’ll scare them enough, and then you can attack them, front and flanks.” She clasps her hands in front of her, her dress white, her gloves Targaryen-red. “I imagine it should be a quick battle.”

Tyrion sees the panic filling Jaime’s eyes. “Your Grace, do not breathe fire on them,” he pleads. “This is cheating.”

“And this is War,” the Hand of the Queen retorts. “There’s nothing wrong with a little cheating.”

“Cheating is cowardice,” Jaime snaps. “Can you look your enemies in the eye while you burn them from atop a dragon?” And, as if he remembers in the last seconds, he adds, “Your Grace?”

“I beg your pardon; did you just call me a craven?” Daenerys says, her eyebrows curling angrily. “Did you look my father in the eye when you buried your sword into his back, _Kingslayer_?”

His brother seems unmoved, keeping the hateful gaze of the Queen. After all these years, the slur almost doesn’t sting. “You aim to gain them for your cause. I can’t speak for Tarly’s men, but I am not so sure the Lannister men will bend the knee to you if you fight like this.”

“Of course they will,” Tyrion mutters. “The only hold Cersei has on them is fear of death.” He suggestively raises his eyes to his brother. “And we have more than fear of death to offer.”

Tyrion catches Jaime’s eye settling on the badge of Hand before he glares at his face. “I thought you wanted to spare people’s lives.”

“King’s Landing is full of innocent civilians. Women, children and men who never chose Cersei as their queen,” Tyrion retorts. “We’re talking about a battlefield, here. You’re letting your emotions get the best of you.”

Jaime’s nostrils flare at the suggestion that he’s being _emotional_ , but instead of replying to his brother, he looks at Daenerys again. “They’re led by a turn-cloak, a man they do not respect, and you have the element of surprise in your favour,” he argues. “You have one of the best armies in an open field that exists in the world. There is no _need_ for your dragonfire. Not here, not like this.”

Despite the remnants of fury and contempt in her eyes, Daenerys cedes. “Very well, Ser Jaime,” she says. “Since this is your test, I’ll listen to your advice. My dragons shall only watch my men fight. I expect that’ll make your job easier, afterward.” She raises one eyebrow. “Anything else?”

He swallows dry and hard, relieved. “No, Your Grace. That would be all.”

  
  
  
**iv.**

That is all. They feed the horses, train, rest, and wait.

Tyrion tries to reason with Daenerys about every possible next step in their campaign, but the Queen seems distracted, her mind far away, and he eventually gives in to his own distractions. By the end of the afternoon, after he comes back from a walk with Bronn around the perimeter of the forest, he sits down to rest his legs, his back against a giant rock by the river and his eyes fall on Sansa and Brienne of Tarth, in front of their shared tent, talking in whispers. The taller woman listened silently to the Stark lady as Sansa, apparently, explained something to her. At some point, Brienne makes a comment - Tyrion can’t listen to it, or read her lips - but it makes Sansa hold back her laughter and shake her head. The blue armour reflects the colors of the gentle sunset; Sansa’s hair, falling in a single braid across her back, agrees with the red sky. It’s like a painting. Right in the middle of a War.

Tyrion doesn’t notice his brother approaching. “You’re staring,” Jaime says, but his eyes are, too, entranced by the sight of the two women.

“So are you,” Tyrion replies. It’s the first time they talk since their interaction in the dungeons. He notices his brother has shaved and he can recognize his face again as something resembling the man he knows, though his gaze is wary.

“I find Brienne interesting to observe,” Jaime quips, sitting by his side and stretching his very long legs across the grass. “She’s pleasant to look at. Lady Sansa, I mean. She’s always been pretty.”

“No,” Tyrion shakes his head, denying the statement. “She’s not pretty. She’s _beautiful._ ”

Jaime, who’s smarter than Tyrion gives him credit for, tilts his golden head. “Some could argue that there’s nothing wrong with falling in love with your own wife.”

“I disagree, from personal, first-hand experience,” Tyrion says, flatly. “And she’s not my wife anymore.”

“Did you annul it?” Jaime asks.

Tyrion shifts his shoulders, as if they suddenly pain him. “No.”

“Did _she_?”

“I didn’t ask, Jaime.” The Hand of the Queen sighs, frustrated. “What do you want me to do?”

“Anything,” Jaime retorts. “Stop staring. This swooning is getting on my nerves.”

“It’s easy for you to speak,” Tyrion mutters. “You can effectively have any lady you wish swooning over _you_.” Jaime chuckles. It’s a wry sound; Tyrion missed it more than he could say. He finally looks Jaime in the eye, turning to the side to face his brother. “Does that mean you have forgiven me?” His voice can’t help but be hopeful. _Fool._

“For killing our father? Of course not. I’ll never forgive you for that.” Jaime looks away. “For siding with a lady that does not hesitate in raining fire from the sky? Maybe. I certainly can understand the appeal of victory,” he remarks, sarcastically.

“She’s not Aerys,” Tyrion murmurs. It feels like he’s been saying that to everyone, and to himself, for ages.

“That’s what you say,” Jaime says. A silence falls over them, as quietly as the day turns into night and black paints the doom of the sky. “You’re my little brother, Tyrion. And you saved my life.” _Because you saved mine,_ Tyrion wants to say, doesn’t. This is more than debts. Tyrion knows, then, that they’ll be all right. Not like before. _Before_ is not possible anymore. But fine enough. Jaime gets up, tapping him on the shoulder. “ _Do_ something.”

  
  
  
**v.**

Tyrion decides to do something.

Not to court the lady, of course. He’s still Hand of the Queen, and he’s been given a task that could be accomplished in more or less pleasurable ways. One night, the perfect opportunity presents itself to him; it’s two nights before the expected battle, long after they’ve eaten their watered soup; after Jaime has left to speak with Ser Bronn, and Brienne has retired earlier to the tent she shared with Sansa. He and Sansa stay behind, alone as they never have the chance to, the bonfire between them dissipating the night wind.

He has a flagon of wine in hand, one that he intended to drink alone, but an idea occurs to him. “My lady,” he calls. She seems to be out of a reverie when her gaze finds him. “Would you entertain playing a game?”

Behind the flames, he sees her doubtful blue eyes. “A game?” She frowns, embracing her own body beneath her cloak, as if cold. “At this hour?”

He laughs and gets up, walking toward her. For both his surprise and delight, she slides to the side on the trunk she’s sitting on, making room for him. “It’s quite a simple game,” he says, taking the given seat. “I’ll make a statement. If I’m right, you drink. If I’m wrong, you tell me to drink. And then it’s your turn.” He shrugs. “And we can’t lie.”

She stares at his face, then at the wine in his hand, and gives him a sharp glance. “You just want to get drunk.”

“I do not,” he promises. “You can go first, if you wish.”

She bites her lower lip, and turns to the side, gathering her skirts to sit astride the wooden bole beneath them. “Very well,” she agrees. Tyrion mirrors her position. Their cups are empty, so he fills up both glasses to the rim. “You are here to spy on me.”

After the initial shock, he can’t help but laugh. There it is, her northern roots showing. Straight to the point. “I wouldn’t use the word spy, but…” He takes a sip. Small, to begin with, so he won’t lose himself in the game or in her. It’s a small concession in the name of a fair game, and she probably already knew that Daenerys didn’t like her that much.

Her mouth remains dutifully tight, but her eyes gleam with mirth. “What were the words used?”

“I was asked to _keep an eye on you_. As if I needed someone else’s order to look at you the whole day through.” He thinks to discern, beneath the orange glow of the fire, a touch of pink to her cheeks. So she noticed all his _staring_. He seizes the chance of her shyness. “But then, again, if you had guests at Winterfell, wouldn’t you do the same?”

“That is reasonable. Your Queen has no reason to trust me,” she says, after a moment of consideration, and doesn’t sound offended. “But what about you, my lord?” She asks, coyly. “Do you trust me?”

“It’s my turn, not yours,” he says, clicking his tongue. He narrows his eyes, staring at her face thoughtfully. “Warning the Reachmen about the upcoming winter is not the only reason you’re on this expedition.” After a pause, when she examines him just as closely, Sansa finally drinks a shallow sip. He grins. “Care to explain, my lady?”

“Is it part of the rules?” She asks.

He frowns. “No.”

“Then there’s no need to explain,” she retorts, simply.

He feels a jet of blood running right to his crotch. He’s always had an eye for pretty things, but nothing turned him on more than _intelligent_ beautiful women. “Fair enough,” he concedes, voice just slightly strained.

Sansa runs her finger over the rim of her cup. “You don’t really believe Daenerys has a right to the Iron Throne.” Tyrion brings his glass to his mouth, taking a deeper swig. Sansa looks stunned. “Well, I wasn’t really expecting to win that one.”

“I believe that Daenerys would make a terrific Queen,” he explains. “But I also believe that the Iron Throne is won and kept through force, and Daenerys has an immensely powerful army and three adult dragons.” He puts his cup down in front of him, between their bodies. “My sister has already lost her Kingdom.” He leans over, closer, shortening the distance and whispering like a confession, “and I _hate_ to be on the losing side.”

The proximity doesn’t seem to bother Sansa at all. She presses her cup against her cheek, half-hiding her clever smile as she keeps his gaze. “And the right name?” She questions. “Doesn’t it count?”

“It counts. But isn’t your brother a bastard?” Tyrion returns. “ _Wars_ win crowns. Which leads us to my turn.” He leans back, widening the distance again and straightening his spine. “In the dead of the night, sometimes, you think the northern crown should be yours.”

 _That_ visibly bothers her. “This question is unfair.”

“You just questioned my opinions about my own Queen,” he says, with a purposeful, measured shrug. “I think we’re pretty even.”

Sansa stares at the wine in her cup for a moment so long he thinks she won’t answer, but, at last, “you are right and you are not.”

“How so?”

“Jon was chosen because he was loved and trusted by our people. I was not as loved,” she raises her head. Her face, licked by the fireglow, is set on stone, composed, collected. It does not denounce any particular emotion, not that he can detect. “They think I'm southbound.”

“Well, rumours say that you decided the Battle for Winterfell. That the Vale pledged their forces to you.” A part of him that can’t help but plant seeds of doubt, just in case, adds, “a true-born Stark.”

“The Vale is not part of the North,” Sansa replies, in the same self-possessed voice.

“And you wanted to be loved?” He asks.

She sighs, deeply, and another silence follows. “I’ve always thought it to be a safer route to loyalty than fear,” she finally explains. “Or even birth-right. So, yes, sometimes I wonder...” Her voice trails off as she stares at the distance, and then, with the smallest shake of her head, she comes back, refusing to finish the thought. “But I wouldn’t beg for their love like that.”

Tyrion ponders that. “I think we both should drink,” he says.

She chortles. “Fine.” They drink. He fills up their cups again as Sansa stares at him, her index-finger pointed to his direction over the edge of her glass when he’s done. “You’re in love with Daenerys.”

Slowly, a smirk spreads across his mouth. “Drink,” he says, shocked with the softness in his tone.

“You say we couldn’t lie,” she reminds him.

“ _Drink_ , Sansa.”

She does, and then adds, “seriously?”

He is still smirking. “Why the surprise?”

“Well, you’re always by her side,” she reasons. “You spend hours meeting alone with her, every day.”

“I am her Hand,” he is still smirking, because that _tone_ , too placid, too impassive in her voice- is that…? “I’m _supposed_ to.”

“You look at her as if you admire her,” Sansa proceeds. “As if she is beautiful.”

At that he finally laughs, if just a little. “I _do_ admire her, and she _is_ very beautiful. I’m not blind.” Squeezing his eyes, he cocks his head to the side. “Why don’t you ask me what you really want to know?”

“Why don’t you?” the Lady of Winterfell hastily replies. “It is your turn.”

Tyrion bites the inside of his cheek while he thinks it over. It’s not the wine muddling his thoughts, he knows; only the impossibility, the absurdity of what he’s about to ask. It’s a risky move, but in the worst case scenario, he’ll get to drink. “You’re... jealous of me?” Her eyes waver just for a second, and then she raises her glass to drink from it. His eyes get caught on her wine-stained lips. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” she murmurs. Looks away. “We were married, and you and I never truly had the chance to build what you have built with her. Sometimes, I wonder if we could have had it,” and Tyrion, he just feels something pulling at his heartstrings. “And it’s like I’ve lost you without ever having you.”

It’s when Tyrion realizes, then, that this game is _far_ out of his control, and perhaps out of hers, too; that they’ve reached a point of no return. “Now you,” he says, voice thick with something he can’t quite name. Perhaps desire. Perhaps longing. Perhaps hope. Probably all three.

Sansa seems to have come to the same conclusion, because she raises her chin, the same way she did when he first sought her chambers at Dragonstone. Daringly, if just beneath the surface. “You wanted me,” she declares. “Back in King’s Landing.”

“I’m not proud of it, but,” he drinks. She doesn’t look surprised; whatever emotion crosses her face, soon disappears. “You hated me,” he returns, before he can lose his nerve. “Back in King’s Landing.”

“Drink,” Sansa says, smoothly.

“Well,” he obeys, sincerely astonished, “that is _something_.”

“You missed me while we were apart,” she says. It sounds blurted out and unplanned, so unlike her. The gloss of her eyes accuses the wine that has definitely caught her.

Tyrion can’t help but chuckle against the rim of his cup. He thought of her. A lot more than what he’d like, if he could stop it, but it turns out he couldn’t. He thought of her while he crossed the Narrow Sea imprisoned in a box, wondered where she would be and why she never said goodbye. He thought of her while his skin burned beneath the Essosi sun, asking himself where they would be if Oberyn had won and he had taken her to know Dorne. He thought of her at night, while he ruled in Meeren, remembering the scent she used to leave behind in her pillow; rosemary and sugar and lemons, Sansa has always smelled so _sweet_. And he missed her, all the while. Damn her; but he did.

“You’re good at this game,” he confesses, darkly, and drinks the rest of the wine in his cup. He cleans his mouth with the back of his hand, head dizzy. “Not that I’m counting, but I’m pretty sure you’re winning.”

“I think we should stop playing now,” she says, suddenly. As the dam around them breaks, Tyrion is suddenly aware of the night; the crickets singing in the forest and the cold wind. She looks- _scared_. For the first time since she arrived on the shores of Dragonstone, he sees fear in her eyes.

He feels it again, that familiar feeling of heartbreak over Sansa Stark. “I only answered what you asked me.”

“I know. I’m just- I should go. It’s late.” She puts her cup down and gets up in a haste. Before she takes her leave, though, she hesitates. “I missed you, too. While I was-” and Sansa, brave, cunning and beautiful Sansa, swallows down her own words. She lowers her gaze for a moment, and Tyrion closes his right hand in a fist, wishing he could end that pain, wishing she’d never gone north with Petyr and he'd never gone to Essos with Varys, wishing the years away. “I missed you,” she merely repeats, and turns around to get into her tent.

  
  
  
**vi.**

When the day of battle finally arrives, they’ve been ready, waiting in position, for three entire days.

The Dothraki troops are in line; Missandei retires to her tent after she’s held Grey Worm one last time. This battle, however, is not for the Unsullied. There’s a silence of expectation and tension, so solid that it could be cut in half with a sword. Daenerys nuzzles Drogon’s head before she climbs atop his back.

Then, she takes flight, Rhaegal and Viserion soaring right behind their brother.

It’s early afternoon, and the wings of the dragons send a passing shadow over the land of men, blacking out the sun. At first, Daenerys flies high and fast, and she sees when the enemies’ troops, down below, raise their heads in wonder and terror.

She returns, this time, diving in, Drogon closer to the ground just enough that they’ll feel the rush of the wind as he flies them by, and it’s then that the shock and terror break and she listens to the men, crying out in panic and starting to run at the sight of dragons visiting Westeros for the first time in centuries.

(That was the sign. She spoke with Qhoro, the night before. “I won’t burn them, but I’ll make them scream. When they do, you’ll advance.”

“You’ll do all the work for us, Khaleesi,” he had complained.

Daenerys had laughed.)

Her Dothraki then approach, first silently, just the thunder of their horses denouncing their proximity, and then with screams, arakhs raised as they finally crash smoothly against the Lannister-Tarly forces.

From a small hill, distant enough to be safe, Tyrion watches the battle happening at the plain near the Goldroad, Jaime by his right, Sansa and Brienne by his left. They’re watching out for the white flag that will signal the surrender of the enemies, but none of them were truly prepared to witness the Dothraki in the field, in action, for the first time. Tyrion sees Sansa leaning closer to Brienne, eyes terrified.

They all see when Daenerys, just after the battle has begun, takes her dragons higher and higher, and flies away, eastbound, until she disappears into the horizon.

  
  
  
**vii.**

“Where did Daenerys go?” the Hand demands.

Qhoro, covered in the blood of his enemies - Tyrion’s own men - only shrugs. He is the only Dothraki that can speak the Common Tongue. He doesn’t respect Tyrion, much as the rest of Daenerys’ khalasar: they can’t respect a man that needs a special saddle to ride a horse, a man who can’t yield a weapon. They respect their Khaleesi, however, enough not to kill him right there and then, even when he makes _demands._

If anyone knows where she was headed when she flew away, that would be Qhoro. Or Grey Worm. Both men in front of him don’t look very collaborative. “Khaleesi don’t say,” the Dothraki replies.

The battle was won quickly, even without the dragonfire. The Dothraki were used to keep the losers as their slaves; the situation was not completely unlike it. Since they saw the white flags over the hills across the battlefield, they’ve been separating and chaining every living man, stepping on the dead as if they were already part of the earth. Jaime had gone to the Lannister army, afterward. Tyrion hasn’t see him since.

On the horizon, the sun is about to set again. “And Randyll Tarly?” Tyrion asks, tiredly.

“I executed him,” Grey Worm says. “He didn’t bend the knee to Daenerys Targaryen.”

Tyrion sighs. The field smells of death and war: empty bowels and blood.

“My men will execute son,” Qhoro promises to Grey Worm.

Tyrion’s eyes grow wide. “His _son_ is alive?” The leaders of his Queen’s armies look at him suspiciously. “ _Do not_ kill him,” Tyrion orders. “Bring him to my tent.”

As Hand of the Queen, he enjoys the privilege of a tent of his own. There’s an improvised, low table in the center, a map of Westeros sprawled over it and three wooden stools around it. He rolls the leather map unceremoniously when Sansa comes inside his tent, timidly looking around. “My lord?” She asks.

“Come inside, my lady.” It’s not a _chamber_ , after all; it’s not spacious, and perhaps because of that Sansa seems too big in the middle of it. She keeps standing, even though all the three seats are empty. She seems _dislocated_ , too beautiful and too pure in the midst of so much death and blood. Her hair is parted in the center, two strands fastened on the back of her head in a simple twist and the rest falling free beneath in soft curls. Her dress is again a deep shade of blue, though the style is a little different from her usual gowns. It has golden flowers embroidered all over her torso, and instead of protecting her modesty to the neck, the neckline exposes a portion of her creamy skin - it's not really deep or revealing; just enough. The cloak about her shoulders is a light tone of gray, the same shadow seen in banners of House Stark. There’s something _ghostly_ about her, today, as if he’s dreaming and she is signaling to him that he is dreaming, but his mind is too full of ideas for him to put his finger on the reasons why.

“Ser Randyll Tarly?” She asks, folding her hands into each other.

“Dead,” Tyrion finishes tucking the map into its case and takes a seat around the table with a sigh. “His son is alive. Grey Worm is bringing him to me.”

Sansa gives a thoughtful nod. “I’ll help you,” she says, confidently. It’s not like he’s being given a choice. They haven’t been alone since the night of his drinking game, and she apparently is ignoring the very fact that it happened, which he finds, honestly, great. “I don’t know much about him. Is he the oldest?”

“No,” Tyrion says, serving himself a cup of wine. “The oldest is the one who went to the Wall. Wine?”

“No, thank you; Samwell?” Sansa frowns deeply. “Jon told me many stories about him, but not this part. That is odd.”

“Randyll Tarly was a hard man,” Tyrion explains to her, drinking a deep gulp of his cup. Everything about Randyll reminds him of his father, and though his death is a complication, he doesn’t really pity the man. “He didn’t think Samwell was fit to rule Horn Hill, and sent him to the Wall so the youngest could be the heir.”

Her eyes are clear with understanding. “We should expect the younger son to be closer to the father, then.”

“Something of the sorts,” Tyrion mutters, unable to avoid the sourness of his tone, just as Grey Worm comes inside, too, wordlessly taking the captive before Tyrion. He’s young and handsome and his eyes are scared; he’s still in his armor, and covered in blood, but all his limbs seem to be functioning and whole. Tyrion points with his chin to the empty seat across him. “Unchain him, Grey Worm. We are here to talk.”

Grey Worm does as he’s told, and then moves to stand by the entrance of the tent, just as mute as he entered. The son of Randyll Tarly shifts his wrists.

“Ser Dickon Tarly,” Tyrion greets with a smile. “Or should I call you _my lord_? With your father dead, you’re the Lord of Highgarden now.”

The eyes of the young man switch from Tyrion’s face to Sansa’s a couple of times before he eventually settles them on Tyrion. “I don’t care about titles,” he says, voice firm but hoarse. _What do you care about then, boy?_ , Tyrion can’t help but wonder. “But I’ve never been knighted.”

“Oh, then _my lord,_ ” Tyrion says, decidedly. “My name is Tyrion Lannister. I am Hand of the Queen and I watched your battle from the start. You fought bravely today, lord Dickon. You didn’t abandon your men even in face of great challenge, and, above all, you survived.” His fingers tap the surface of the improvised table separating them. “The same cannot be said about many of your soldiers.”

“I’m no knight, but neither am I a coward, my lord,” the new lord of Highgarden says, holding his head high, even though his voice trembles a little. “This is not how we do it in the Reach.”

“How do you do it in the Reach, then? Betraying your liege lady?” Tyrion asks, tilting his head as he examines the boy closely. The words, his tone or his eyes do the work of lowering his head. “Do you know what happened to Olenna Tyrell, just three days ago?

Dickon hesitates. “She was taken captive to King’s Landing. I assigned the men to do the task myself.”

“My sister stripped her of her clothes and made her walk, naked, barefoot, through the streets of King’s Landing. And after that, she was beheaded. While still naked.” Tyrion makes a brief pause, and then adds, “a woman old enough to be your great grandmother.”

“Olenna turned against the Queen first,” says Dickon Tarly, though Tyrion sees the uncertainty lurking in his eyes.

“You turned against her. She turned against the Queen.” Tyrion shrugs, relaxing into his seat. “If only our honor relied on more than loyalties! Loyalties can be fickle, fragile things.” This time, he pauses for a longer moment before he speaks again. “There’s still time to fix the mistakes of your father, my lord. Pledge your men and your loyalty to Daenerys Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Let us be allies again.”

“My father refused to bend, even in face of death,” the young man retorts, with a fresh hurt in his voice. “Why should I?”

“I know your brother, my lord,” Sansa says, out of the sudden. Dickon’s eyes shift to her, and Tyrion sees how he runs his gaze over her form, quickly, before he stares her in the eye. “I’m sorry, I have not introduced myself,” she says in a polite tone. “I’m Sansa Stark. Lady of Winterfell.”

“I’ve heard of you. You’re far from home, my lady,” Lord Tarly says. He frowns one eyebrow. “Where did you meet my brother?”

“Actually, that is not quite right,” she corrects, with an apologetic smile. “I’ve _heard_ about your brother. He’s my brother's best friend, and Jon always tells me of his courage. I feel like I’m almost his friend, too,” she finishes in a warm voice.

“Courage?” Dickon wrinkles his forehead and then, chuckles, despite the circumstances. “I don’t think we’re talking about the same man. My brother is a kind soul, sure, but he’s not particularly known for his courage.”

Sansa wears a mask of perfect, crafted confusion. “Oh, isn’t your brother the one who went to the Wall?” She wonders. “Samwell?”

Dickon nods, his mistrust painted in his face. “Yes…?” It almost sounds like a question, in the end.

“Then it’s him,” Sansa says, almost _beams._ “Didn’t you know? Your brother was the first person to kill one of the White Walkers beyond the Wall.” She approaches them both, but instead of taking a seat beside Tyrion she stands behind him. “Without him, we’d never know that the Others can be killed with dragonglass.”

There’s a moment of silence, of course, of incredulity, as there is always whenever Sansa mentions the Dead. Dickon stares at them, as if he’s being fooled. “The Others is just an old tale told to scare children,” he says.

“The Army of the Dead is very much real, lord Dickon,” Sansa says. Her voice slowly grows sharper, as if she’s honing her tongue in front of their eyes. “And I would know, for they come from the North, the place I’ve always called home. Do you think I am a liar?”

“No, my lady!” He hurries to explain. “I’m just saying that they cannot be real.”

“Like dragons?” Tyrion offers.

He sees another wave of doubt flooding the young man’s eyes, and probably so does Sansa, because she smoothly continues her reasoning. “They’re real and they’re coming for us. Your brother is right now at the Citadel, by the orders of my brother, the King in the North, gathering all the information he can find about how to best defeat them.” She gives a step closer and Tyrion can feel the fabric of her dress brushing against his back. “And the realms will always remember his service and courage.”

As soon as Sansa finishes her speech, Jaime enters the tent. He looks surprised with the scene before him. “Brother,” Tyrion greets, before Jaime can utter a word. “How did it go?”

“They’re mine,” Jaime answers. “It was quite easy.” And then, looking at Dickon, “I’m sorry for your loss, my lord.”

Not that Tyrion had any doubt, but he turns to the young Tarly in front of him again with a small smirk. “As you can see, lord Dickon, Cersei’s family has abandoned her. Her own men have turned against her.” He gives another deliberate shrug. “She’s alone, and this War is already won.”

“There’s no honor in dying for a mad Queen, my lord,” Sansa says, seizing the chance of Dickon’s dubiety. “But there’s honor in serving the realms with the best we have at hand.”

“And how could I help the realms?” He asks, daringly. “By bending to another Queen?”

“The Reach is the most fertile of our lands, and we have a long, hard winter ahead of us,” Sansa exposes, patiently. “As for Queen Cersei, she doesn't care about anyone but herself. And because she’s selfish, she is not ready to lead us to face the real threat that comes to our doors.” Tyrion wishes he could see her face at the moment, but while she stands behind him, it’s impossible. He can see, however, every emotion passing through the face of the opponent before him. He can see his suspicion slowly turning into fear. A good kind of fear. A fear they could work with. “We must be united, now,” Sansa finishes.

“And I suppose Daenerys Targaryen _cares_ ,” the young Tarly counterpoints.

“Daenerys has dragons and mines of dragonglass, two powerful weapons against the Others,” Tyrion answers. “But weapons are not food. Do not be mistaken, my lord: my sister will starve the Seven Kingdoms if it means she’ll have her belly full.”

Dickon stares at Tyrion, again at Sansa, at Tyrion again. “And if I refuse?” He asks, in a small voice.

“You had a long day, my lord,” Tyrion says, with finality. “You lost a battle, you lost your father, and you’re now the heir to his legacy. There’s much on your shoulders. Why don’t you sleep over it?”

“And we can talk again in the morning,” Sansa agrees, placing her hands on Tyrion’s shoulders with ease. “When you’re rested and your mind is clear.” He can listen to her smile, can _picture_ it, the way it doesn’t reach her eyes and makes her look both angelic and dangerous at once. “I’m sure you’ll see reason and do the honorable thing.”

It catches Dickon’s attention, too. “You said my brother killed one of those dead men?”

“Yes,” Sansa confirms. “I think you’ll be glad to know that your brother is indeed very brave.” She lets a heavy silence fill his tent, and, finally, with just the right amount of longing and disappointment in her voice, “to be honest, I was hoping it to be a family trait.”

It’s like a final blow, and it is so _clean_ , and well-placed, that Tyrion has to make an effort not to make a _sound_ of approval. It’s almost a physical pleasure, like the taste of a good wine.

Dickon looks at him again, eyes uncertain. “You won’t kill me?”

“Absolutely not,” Tyrion assures him, soothingly. “We’ll guard your tent, and no one shall lay a finger on you or your men tonight.” He stares at the Unsullied that spent the whole meeting completely still with intent eyes. _That is an order_ , he wants to say. “Grey Worm?”

As soon as Grey Worm chains his wrists again and takes the boy outside, he and Sansa release a slow breath. “What if he doesn’t?” She asks, walking around the table. He’s so glad to see her face again, but already missing the gentleness of her touch on his back.

“If he doesn’t, then we have the Hightowers,” Tyrion says, massaging both of his temples as he closes his eyes. “Actually, if he _does_ , we still have to handle the Hightowers. I don’t think they’ll be pleased to know that the Tarlys _remained_ in Highgarden after all this mess.”

“That poor lad is completely lost,” Jaime says, sitting by his side. 

Tyrion chortles under his breath with a nod of agreement, and opens his eyes again. “My lady,” he says, softly. When she looks at him, he makes sure to look her in the eye. “ _Tremendous_ work.” What he wants to say is that it was _delicious_ to see her working first-hand, but Tyrion doesn’t want to jeopardize an otherwise excellent chance at alliance with one of the smartest women in the country, so, “thank you.”

Sansa gives a soft chuckle, getting up and approaching him as he reaches out for her hand. He can see the pride in her face, clear as the day. “Oh, you men,” she says, giving her hand for him to kiss, “are all the same, always trying to prove yourselves.”

“We’re very simple creatures,” he agrees. Self-deprecation had never felt so good before. When he lets her go, Sansa runs the fingers he just kissed through his hair before she leaves.

Jaime observes the interaction with curious eyes. “I see progress has been made,” he comments, casually, when they’re alone.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Tyrion retorts. His head feels the ghost of her touch and he tries to remind himself he _just saw_ with his own eyes what she was capable of doing with a man.

Sansa Stark. Not a little dove anymore. Not _at all_.

“What do you think?” Jaime asks, after all.

“He’ll bend,” Tyrion says, his voice sure as he finishes the wine in his cup and looks at the opening of his tent, as if Sansa’s absence had left a trail behind her.

To which Queen the Reach will bend- well, he’s not so sure.

  
  
  
**viii.**

(He was so worried about the battle, and his mind so wrapped around Daenerys leaving and the Tarly boy, that it is only long after Sansa has left that Tyrion recognizes the odd, ghostly feeling about her that day.

It’s Margaery Tyrell. She had dressed like Margaery.)

  
  
  
**ix.**

They listen to the roar and rustling of dragons’ wings long after the night has fallen.

Daenerys climbs off of Drogon’s back, her face plastered in pain. They’re reunited in front of a fire, and Tyrion gets up at her sight, rushing toward her, both worried and angry. “Where have you _been_?” He almost screams.

The winds are cold, and her hair dances about when she looks down to him. “I went to King’s Landing,” she says, and starts to walk toward the fire.

Tyrion stands behind, mouth agape, but recovers soon enough to follow. “You went _where_?”

Everyone gets up reverently when she approaches, but Daenerys waves a hand to dismiss the gesture. She takes a seat in front of the burning fire, removing her gloves and approaching her hands to the heat. Everyone is staring at her, waiting for an explanation and afraid to demand it from a Queen. She spends several minutes just silently staring at the flames until she decides to speak. “The best way to assure our victories was to proceed with the plan to besiege King’s Landing. And we knew that there was no way to besiege King’s Landing while Euron’s fleet occupied Blackwater Bay,” she says, looking at Tyrion. Then, to Jaime, “have you accomplished your goal, Ser?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” he answers, uncomfortably in his worry, arms crossed on his back. “The Lannister men who survived are mine. Lady Sansa and my brother have brought Dickon Tarly to our cause.”

She looks at Tyrion again. “And Randyll?”

“Dead,” Tyrion says. “Executed by Grey Worm.”

Daenerys looks to the Unsullied, who stands by her side. “Well done,” she says to him. Her voice sounds flat, emotionless, when she turns to Jaime again. “Ser Jaime Lannister, in the name of House Targaryen, I forgive you for the crime of treason against your King, and grant you the lordship of Casterly Rock. I thereby name you Warden of the West, and Commander of the western army.” She gives a sigh, and her eyes come back to the flames. “I can do nothing else about your reputation, but I hope you are as good a man as your closest friends make of you.”

Jaime and Brienne share a look. The flames dance, resisting the winter wind that blows on them.

“Your Grace,” Tyrion carefully asks. “What happened in King’s Landing?”

Daenerys rolls her eyes, annoyed. “I didn’t burn your precious city, my lord, if that is what you’re asking.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Tyrion says, defensively, though he’s not quite sure himself. “It’s dangerous for you to fly there, alone, without back-up.”

Her shoulders drop one inch, and she looks- she looks _grieving._ “I burnt the whole of Euron’s fleet.”

Tyrion raises his eyebrows. He imagines the people of King’s Landing, watching the dragons at distance breathing their fire on Blackwater Bay, both a threat and a promise.

“Cersei has no fleet to bring her mercenaries to Westeros, neither the gold to pay them,” Sansa notes.

“They killed one of my children,” Daenerys says.

It is then that Tyrion, indeed all of them, look behind, to the gigantic creatures resting on the grass. In the dark sky, they listened to, more than saw, the arrival of the dragons. And Drogon, covered in black scales, is almost part of the night around him. When Tyrion looks better, closely, he can see Viserion’s white-scales catching the light, like a particular moon.

But there’s no trace of Rhaegal.

“Daenerys,” he whispers, forgetting himself for a moment, enough to call her by her name.

Sansa looks at the Queen, compassion frowning her brow. “How?” She asks.

“They had weapons...” she says, her gaze distant, as if remembering. She shrinks, hit by the cold, and Missandei sits by her side, covering her shoulders with another layer of furs. “Like a crossbow, but so much bigger, and there were so _many_ of them. I didn’t even know-” She stops, not trailing off but out of the sudden, interrupted by her own sob. But soon she swallows it down, taking a deep breath. “He aimed for Drogon, first, and almost hit _me_. Then, they aimed at Rhaegal, all at once. Most of the bolts just tickled him. He was so brave, my child… But they were too many, and one of them pierced through his eye... He immediately fell into the sea.” She releases another sigh, slower and longer. “Viserion and Drogon were able to burn their fleet down, in the meantime and afterward.”

“At least you’re alive, Khaleesi,” Missandei says, kindly, placing a gentle hand on Daenerys' shoulder. Missandei and the Hand share a look; Tyrion nods to her. “You came back to us. Now, you must rest.”

Daenerys accepts her friend’s comfort, covering Missandei’s hand with her own. She then fixes her eyes on Sansa as she gets up. “We’ll guarantee King’s Landing is securely sieged, and Cersei properly trapped, and then, my lady,” she says, “we’ll sail North.”

Sansa, at a loss for words as she rarely is, gives the Queen a nod. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she says, sincerely. “And I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I know you are,” Daenerys says, as she turns around to make her way to her royal tent, ostensibly the biggest of all, with Missandei.

They all release their breaths, at once, feeling the costs of victory weighing on their shoulders.

  
  
  
**x.**

“She looked so very sad,” Brienne murmurs.

Tyrion had already retired to his tent, mourning the dead dragon, and so had Sansa, her smart blue eyes contemplative. Bronn must be snoring in the tent they share; he’s been practicing with Jaime every day, stopping only for the meals.

At every chance they can, and without a word or appointment, Jaime and Brienne stay behind around the nightly bonfire when everyone else has gone to sleep or to walk or to their tasks. Jaime has come to realize that, in their predicament, these small moments are mandatory for his sanity. He needs some time alone with Brienne just as he needs daily meals. She keeps him grounded, lucid. And they’ve spent too much time alone on the road to be used to company and crowds.

If not for her, then he’d slip away into his own mind, far from the crude reality. And since he left Cersei to her own madness, he’s been trying to avoid that particular habit. “Aren’t you relieved those things can be killed, somehow?” He asks.

Jaime had found it odd that the Dragon Queen, the last individual of the house that chose fire for their champion, had so easily accepted his plea not to burn the men on the battlefield. For him, it comes as no surprise that she had plans to make better use of her firepower. It is, however, interesting the way things have developed. He avoids to dwell his thoughts on his twin, open and vulnerable without defenses, without an army, without a fleet, without her allies, alone. Instead, he muses about the fact that dragons are not as indestructible as he had thought when Bronn took him to the shore of Dragonstone and he saw the beasts flying among the clouds.

The eyes, then. _That_ is how you kill a dragon.

“Ser Jaime!” Brienne scolds, her homely face all huffy at his rudeness. He smiles. Lately, he has been thinking that her face is his favorite in the whole world.

“What?” He asks, innocently.

“Don’t be heartless,” she mutters. “Have you never had a pet?”

He laughs, then, because that is so, so _Brienne_ in a very specific, adorable way. “Like lions?” He japes. “Those creatures are not pets, Brienne. They are giant weapons with the potential for massive destruction.”

“Shhh.” She covers his mouth with her hand, looking around. Unsullied round them from afar, but they don’t seem to have listened. Jaime is much more interested in the dauntless palm pressing against his smirk. He absolutely approves of that boldness, and wants her to silence him always and in every way she finds fitting. “Don’t push your luck, Ser. The Queen officially forgave you, today. And gave you Casterly Rock.”

(Jaime can’t help but compare.

With Cersei, he’s always felt merged into one being. They were one and the same. Two halves of a whole. That is why he did everything she asked, because her will was his will, and her wants were his wants, and her dreams were his dreams, and there was no separating them, even her body was his body. They were mirrors of each other, reflecting their own perfection to eternity. When he was inside Cersei, it felt like a dream. Like being numb to the pain of existing, numb to the world, to everything that was not her. He could just slip into her and forget it all.

Brienne is not like that.

Brienne puts up a fight. She dares and she challenges and she wraps a rope around his torso and pulls him _into_ the world. She calls him out and scolds him and fights him. Brienne could never numb his pain. She touches the wound, and forces him to be present. Here and now. In his own crippled, old, tired body.

Brienne always makes Jaime Lannister feel, with precision, _every part_ of his own body.)

He wraps his left hand around her wrist, pushing her away. “Not even in my father’s wildest dreams...” He trails off. Brienne looks embarrassed with her impulsivity, and before she can fall into one of her shy moods, he adds, more quietly for her sake, “you know I’m right.”

She only sighs. “She seems to be a good woman, Jaime.”

“Good women don’t fly around atop dragons, burning things to ashes.”

“She just burnt the fleet of one particularly evil man, allied to your particularly mad sister,” Brienne retorts. She always gets sour when talking about Cersei, but she also always tries to hide the sharpest edges of her words. For his sake, perhaps. She is gentle in ways that the world can’t understand; Jaime thinks that, for that alone, her heart will always break, every single time. “We are at War.”

“For now,” he snaps. “What happens when we’re at peace? How does it look like, a peaceful kingdom with dragons flying overhead?”

Her frown grows deeper. “What makes you think she wants to burn things to ashes? You didn’t take after your father. She doesn’t seem to have taken after hers.”

“Yet,” he murmurs.

Brienne huffs. “You are maddening, and I give up.”

Oh, how Jaime had _missed_ her. He smiles again.

“Have you ever had a pet, my lady?” He asks.

She sends him a hard glance, but the more she lets her eyes linger on him, the more they soften. “I had a cat when I was a young girl,” she finally concedes with a smile.

“Tommen adored cats,” he says, without thinking. And then thinks. And then feels like he should punch himself. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. That burden is not hers to carry.

Her sapphire eyes settle upon him and Jaime is, once again, acutely aware of how undeserving he is of her, how he lacks in honor and there’s no fixing to his broken pieces. Brienne is the closest thing he’s ever known to a _whole_ person. Everything in her falls into its right places, body and soul. She’s well-adjusted and uncut, and he’s what’s left of a man, mourning the child he never raised who was once born from the twin-sister he now despises. Not for the first time, he wonders why, exactly, Brienne insists on staying in his company, or looking at him as if he were her equal, when she’s so blatantly his better in all things that truly matter.

But she reaches out for his left hand. The gesture is easy and feels right. “Don’t apologize,” Brienne whispers. He wraps his fingers around hers, holding them tightly, and she doesn’t move away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all my solidarity to american friends in these challenging times. This, too, shall pass <3 take heart and be safe


	4. The Rose of Highgarden

  
  
  


_I'm always pushing you away from me,  
but you come back with gravity_

__

  
  
  
**i.**

Sansa awakes when the sun is still cold; the Queen is summoning her allies. The land still smells of death as Sansa walks among the tents, but the morning is quiet. Even birds sing from the top of the trees; the tune is melancholic and leaves Sansa feeling hysterical, as if such a sweet, sad song shouldn’t be sung amidst so much destruction and ugliness, but it doesn’t matter, anyway. Soon they’ll fly further South, as the shadow of winter looms over Westeros.

When she finds the royal tent, the Unsullied at the entrance glaring at her silently as she enters, the Queen’s allies are already in their posts. Daenerys is dressed in black, a clothing fit for her mourning, Sansa suspects. Tyrion is sitting by her side, looking tired, the waves of his blond hair falling over his right eye; Sansa fights a weird urge to reach out and brush it away. Missandei stands faithfully by the Queen’s left, Qhoro by her left and Grey Worm behind her. They’re gathering around a table, the familiar leather map spread over it, and Jaime Lannister stands across the Queen’s team, Dickon sitting in front of him, like Jaime is guarding him. Sansa decides to stand by Jaime and Dickon’s sides, observing as Daenerys bends down and whispers something in Tyrion’s ear, the way his eyes squeeze in response. He shakes his head lightly, shifts to murmur something back to her, to which she nods. Sansa tries to read the Queen’s lips but finds herself distracted by the greater picture, feels the chords of jealousy pulling at her heartstrings again. Daenerys acknowledges Sansa with a quick look and then begins her speech. “We have taken down Euron’s fleet and we have the gold of the Reach,” she sums up. “Ser Jaime Lannister has convinced the Lannister army to join our cause. Cersei is open, without a fleet, without the necessary money to buy her army. We are here to discuss our next steps.”

“I should go West,” Jaime says, voice measured and quiet. Sansa watches his face closely. She knows Brienne trusts this man, and knows Tyrion loves him; that is enough reason to give him the benefit of the doubt, though that is different than _trusting_. “The mines have gone dry, but we still have grains for winter. I suspect Cersei’s next move would be to take hold of the castle.”

Daenerys drums her fingers absently over the table. “We have the food of the Reach, too, don’t we?”

“A part of the stocks are following right behind,” Tyrion replies. “Another part is in Highgarden. We don’t know how much.”

Daenerys, for the first time, stares at the young son of Randyll Tarly sitting in front of her, already free from his manacles. “Lord Dickon,” she says. “We haven’t been properly introduced, I believe, and I also haven’t been informed of your final decision.”

The boy quickly looks at Tyrion, and then at Sansa, who just gives him the smallest nod. “I’ll pledge my honor and my sword to you, Your Grace, if you’ll spare me, my men and my family,” he says, making a good impression of confidence that soon gets spoiled when he lowers his voice. “But I confess I don’t know the status of the storage in Highgarden.”

Daenerys curls one eyebrow. “I beg your pardon? How not?”

“I was supposed to inherit Horn Hill!” He argues. “I didn’t have the time to- I-I don’t really know how-” Though Sansa is familiar with men’s overall incompetence, she feels genuine compassion for his embarrassment, and eventually, he just gives up on explanations with a sigh. “I’m a warrior, Your Grace, trained to battle, and I shall battle by your side with all my skill, but I’ve never been the one ruling my father’s household.”

Daenerys doesn’t look as sympathetic. “And who would that be?” She inquires.

“My mother,” he answers, as honorably as one could.

Sansa licks her lips to hide a small smile. No one sees but Tyrion, who also looks amused. “Your Grace,” she says, gently. “I’ve been preparing the North for winter for the last year. I could go to Highgarden with lord Dickon to do the same for the Reach,” she offers. “He’s not experienced. It’s a big, important work, and he could use help.”

Daenerys gives a thoughtful nod. “That is very caring of you, my lady,” she says. “Lord Tyrion will join you, then.” Sansa does her best to hide her disappointment. She enjoys Tyrion’s company, but it is another thing entirely to have him follow her like she is a traitor or, _worse_ , not competent enough to do a basic task like that on her own. Daenerys ignores the struggle in her eyes as she turns to her Hand. “You’ll speak with the lords of the Reach and decide who is better suited to rule both Highgarden and Horn Hill. Send letters to them before you leave, warning them about the siege and your arrival.” And then, raising her eyes to Jaime Lannister, “Ser Jaime, you’ll take your men to King’s Landing. We need to take advantage of Cersei’s vulnerability now, before she can bounce back. The Lannister army lived in the capital for most of the last years, so they are better prepared to besiege it.”

He frowns. “But Your Grace, Casterly Rock-”

“Can wait,” she declares. “If Cersei is trapped, she can’t escape, anyway. I’ll send word to Yara and fly to Dorne. The Dornish and the Ironborn fleet will come to your aid, but by the meantime you can start the siege with the men you have. Qhoro, send your men back to Dragonstone and wait for my arrival. We’ll sail North together.” The Dothraki nods dutifully. “Lord Dickon, choose a portion of your men to go with you, Lady Sansa and Lord Tyrion, so you won’t travel alone; the road can be dangerous. The rest of your troops can help Ser Jaime.”

Dickon looks at Sansa one more time before he replies. “Your Grace,” he speaks up. “I beg your pardon, but I thought the true War was to be fought in the North. Lady Sansa told me a great threat was coming from beyond the Wall.”

“The Queen is going North with her dragons and both her armies,” Tyrion explains. “But we cannot let Cersei free while we fight for the country. She doesn’t care about the realms and she will hunt us after our wake.”

“My brother is going to fight in the North,” he insists. “I cannot let him fight alone.” He raises his chin. “Let me and my men follow you, my Queen, northbound.”

Sansa holds her breath in expectation. _He’s talking to you_ , Petyr says in her ear. _Listen._

“If we are to fight against the dead, we need all the men we can get in the North,” Tyrion concedes, in a conciliatory, soothing voice, though he doesn’t look particularly pleased.

Daenerys thinks for a moment, but eventually nods. “Your men can go North,” she allows, “but only after the Dornish army arrives to aid Ser Jaime in the siege. Until then, you’ll send them to King’s Landing and they’ll be under Ser Jaime’s command.” She looks at the map again. “You know what to do. Prepare the horses and your men. You’re all dismissed.” The Queen lifts her head, slowly, “except for you, Lady Sansa, if you could.”

Sansa remains on her spot, head down and hands clasped behind her back as everyone leaves the tent, one by one, her eyes scanning the small table between her and Daenerys. Tyrion is the last to leave, and only then Sansa raises her head. She reminds herself that her skin is made of steel, that her spine is winter and her eyes are iron; that she is the daughter of Ned Stark, that Arya is home, that soon this will be over and she’ll be in the arms of her brother again. Looking into the pale, clear eyes of the Targaryen queen, though, it is hard to find any comfort in the thoughts of a better future. A _better future_ , indeed, a future _at all_ \- it all relies on the decision of this woman. If she’ll be a friend or a foe. An ally or another enemy.

Sansa tries to picture Daenerys in a crown; can’t. “Your Grace?” She says, primly.

Daenerys smiles in a way that makes Sansa remember Margaery. “Lady Sansa,” she says, soberly. “I was hoping we could speak alone and honestly before our respective departures. We haven’t had the chance, yet.”

Sansa nods. “Yes, Your Grace, I’d appreciate that. You’ve been busy. I understand.”

“But Lord Tyrion is being enough of a serviceable host, I hope?” She offers, walking slowly around the table toward Sansa.

Sansa smiles back, just as sweet. “He’s more than serviceable. We’ve been working together in the realms’ best interest.” She tilts her head slightly to the side, just a fraction of an inch. “But I don’t need a septa, or a maidservant, to watch over me.”

Daenerys finally takes the empty seat by her side. It’s not a proper chair, more of a trunk-stool. “Of course you don’t. I don’t send him with you as your watcher, but as your equal. We are, after all, working together, in the realms’ best interest, aren’t we?” She signals to the similar stool in front of Sansa. She walks around as if every corner of the world is her castle; Sansa can’t help but admire her posture. “Take a seat, my lady.” Sansa obeys, and only when she is looking into the Queen’s eye again, the white-haired woman speaks. “I’d ask you to understand my reticence, though. You came to me looking for aid and yet you refuse to be my ally.”

“We _are_ allies, Your Grace,” Sansa replies, calmly. “North and South can live peacefully together. That is not possible with Cersei on the Throne; I was hoping it could be with you.”

Daenerys proceeds as if she hasn’t heard Sansa at all. “You refuse to recognize my birth-right to the _Seven_ Kingdoms-”

“I refuse to surrender a crown that has never been mine,” Sansa interrupts. She’s being bold, she knows, speaking in the middle of a Queen’s speech. She takes in a deep breath. Daenerys asked for a private audience so they could speak _honestly_. Sansa remembers she has always been a terrible liar and that truth is all she has as a weapon at her disposal. “Isn’t that the reason you’re going North, after all, Your Grace? To take the crown out of my brother’s head?”

Apparently, this is a woman who appreciates plain, honest words. The corner of her lips tug in a tired smile. “I am going North because you requested my help, and because it’s only fair that I do whatever I can to save the country I intend to rule. Those are not mutually exclusive goals.” She folds her hands, gloved in black, over the small table, and lets out a sigh. “Can I make you a confession, my lady? Of a private matter.”

Sansa pays close attention, all the nerves of her body awake. “Your trust is flattering, Your Grace, and I wouldn’t betray it.”

Daenerys looks away, to the confinement of her tent - it’s still broader than most tents, but it’s nothing compared to a real Keep, the castle at Dragonstone. Sansa suspects it’s nothing compared to the pyramids of Meeren; nothing compared to the skies she claims to herself as she flies atop her dragons. The whole world must feel small, after that. Available for taking, perhaps. “I’ve seen your home in a dream,” she murmurs. “It was promised to me.”

“Winterfell?” Sansa frowns.

Daenerys smiles sadly. “Not exactly,” she says, confused. Sansa understands; it’s hard to explain dreams to anyone who hasn’t been there. She wouldn’t be able to explain her own dreams for the life of her. Or her nightmares. “I didn’t see a castle, but I saw snow.”

Inexplicably, a chill runs through Sansa’s spine. “Snow?”

“Yes,” Daenerys confirms. “My lady, I need you to understand and trust me. My dreams _do_ come true,” she says, fiercely. “And I’ve been given a prophecy. _To go north, you must journey south._ I suspect the opposite must be true. To go south, I must journey north, too.” She reaches out and holds Sansa’s hands. “When my child died, yesterday, all I wanted to do was to take over King’s Landing and kill Cersei and Euron with my bare hands. I’d watch them burn a thousand times over, if I could. That is what I _want_ to do. And I shall see it done, by the end of this War. But I can’t neglect my own dreams. I am the Dragon’s daughter and I feel that Rhaegal’s death will be vain if I miss the signs. And you are a sign, my lady,” Daenerys looks her in the eye. “I know in my heart that I must go North. The snow calls me.”

Sansa looks at their joined hands. Her light-gray glove against the black leather covering the Queen’s hand. “I had a direwolf, when I was young,” she says. “Her name was Lady.”

Daenerys smiles warmly at her, genuine fondness in her face. “Really?” She asks. “What happened to her?”

“Cersei had her executed,” Sansa shrugs. “I was twelve. She was not my _child_ , not in the way your dragons are, but-” her throat gets tight with an uncomfortable lump, and she takes in a deep breath to dissipate it. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs, feeling foolish, angry at herself for such a silly display of weakness.

But Daenerys grasps her hand tighter. “My lady, we’ll defeat the Army of the Dead together, and then we’ll defeat Cersei together. That I promise you.”

It’s only half a promise, she knows. They don’t speak of freedom, they don’t speak of what comes after, but there’s also no guarantee of an after, of a future. So Sansa only nods. That’ll have to be enough, for now; those are not dim words, and that is no feeble promise. Sansa can only hope it will get them through the worst of winter.

  
  
  
**ii.**

Sansa is familiar with the rhythms of the road: the tension and the tiredness and the dangers of being in the open; the cold; the odd feeling of freedom and vastness of the world despite the circumstances, how the night sky feels closer; not bathing for days; stopping by the rivers to feed the horses and let them rest, but being unable to rest herself; assembling their belongings each morning, building camp each nightfall, keeping track of the days by the moon.

(She’s fond of mornings, and Tyrion is not; every day she wakes up feeling ready and new, no matter how restless her nights, and she finds him rubbing the tiredness out of his eyes, all grumpy as she mounts on her horse with Brienne’s help, “good morning, Lord Tyrion!”

He looks at her and gives her a small smile, the sweetest. “Morning, my lady,” he says.

His voice is graver by the mornings, she realizes. Deeper, lower, rougher. It makes her feel something weird, a _curling_ , tight feeling, in the pit of her belly. The child she was when they were married didn’t pay much attention to that part, but now- now she knows exactly what it is, and it bothers her _greatly._ )

One night, Tyrion and Bronn are finishing their soup across her and Brienne, the warmth radiating from the bonfire a pleasant feeling against the night’s chill. Dickon, sitting between them, comments, casually, “I think we’re moving too slow. We didn’t make twenty miles today, did we?”

“Not quite,” Ser Bronn says, a flagon of wine appearing out of nowhere in his hand. “We need to move faster. The cold is not helping the horses.”

“We’re not moving slow. It’s just that the days are getting shorter,” Sansa says. “Winter is here.”

A heavy silence falls over them, and Tyrion stares at her - silently, curiously - through the flames.

She knows that, at the very best, only Tyrion and Brienne believe in her. Dickon probably just wants to woo her; Bronn is in it for the money, and the rest of the men are just following orders. But Sansa never lets herself forget the reason for her mission.

 _Winter is coming. Winter is here._ She chants to herself, a prayer, every night.

  
  
  
**iii.**

They’ve been on the road for ten days when it happens. She doesn’t listen to the quiet sighing of fire soon enough, nor does she feel the heat of the flames. Her sworn-shield does, though.

“Lady Sansa,” Brienne urges her awake, but doesn’t wait for her to be conscious, instead gathering a still half-asleep Sansa up in her strong arms as if she’s just a small doll.

Sansa opens her eyes to grey smoke. She’s pressed against Brienne’s broad chest as the woman sweeps her out of their shared tent on fire; Brienne carefully but efficiently puts Sansa down, sitting on a polished stone far away enough from the consuming flames. Sansa blinks her eyes awake. “FIRE!” Brienne is screaming; she listens to the noise of hushed feets, of scared voices, yelling, warnings, scared horses, armors clanking; sounds of chaos. The sky is a deep, grayish purple, and the fire shines alive and almost beautiful, providing more light than the sun, still cold behind the dawn.

“Lady Sansa,” another voice approaches, a callous hand upon her shoulder. “Are you well?”

Sansa doesn’t answer. She feels dizzy, coughing, choking on smoke, and it takes her half a minute to understand it’s Ser Bronn speaking to her, but by that time someone else is speaking to her. “Sansa,” now, a more familiar voice is near. He coughs, too, but Sansa leans toward him almost out of instinct; Tyrion reaches out to hold her face, standing in front of her, small hands sliding through her arms, searching, worried, “are you hurt, my lady?”

“No,” she murmurs. She looks ahead, to her tent. Everything burning: her trunk and all her clothes. Brienne’s small case. Brienne’s blue armor? She didn’t feel metal against her cheek, only the rude fabric of Brienne’s clothes; she must have woken from her sleep and didn’t have the time to put her armour on.

“Your fucking _mad_ sister,” Bronn mutters by their side. “Fuck, someone put that fire out _NOW!_ ”

“Bronn!” Brienne calls amidst the gray fog, sword in hand, pointing to the dense forest flanking the road and mounting on a horse faster than Sansa ever thought possible. “That way!”

Dickon Tarly approaches them, completely muddled. “What is happening?”

Bronn clutches the boy’s arm. “Watch over them,” he says, like an order, pointing to Tyrion and Sansa and taking his sword out of its sheath. “If we come back and they’re dead, I’ll kill you and keep Horn Hill for myself.”

He leaves without another warning, disappearing amidst the fog as he takes one of the horses for himself.

“What happened?” Dickon repeats, as no one answered him.

Tyrion does. “Apparently, my sister sent a group of men to kill us,” he says, gravely. And then, lower, “when I put my hands on that _bitch_ , I swear by all the gods, I’ll strangle her to death.”

Sansa finds his words comforting.

“Kill us?” Dickon asks.

The fire consumes the wooden sticks keeping her tent upright; they finally break and the whole tent, already on fire, falls down. Sansa watches, wants to never forget that sight. The North remembers.

“Me and Lady Sansa, particularly,” Tyrion clarifies. “She holds us responsible for Joffrey’s death and, I assume, must not be very happy that we sided with her enemies.” He is unconsciously rubbing Sansa’s back as he speaks. “She’s probably trying to terrify you into turning against Daenerys as well.”

“But you said she had no allies or gold,” the young man argues. Sansa finds it worthy of note that he doesn’t ask if they’ve _actually_ done it.

Tyrion is watching her tent falling apart and his voice is all ragged when he speaks. “Not enough to buy a whole army, but certainly sufficient to hire a small group of mercenaries.”

“How many?” Dickon asks.

“I don’t know,” Tyrion replies, impatiently. “I didn’t see them. Bronn slayed one of them before he could kill me in my sleep, and Brienne spotted the movement before the tent caught fire.” Sansa notices that there’s blood staining his tunic. Tyrion looks around, to the group of perplex soldiers gathering around them, and glares at the Tarly boy. “I believe your men are waiting for your orders, my lord.”

To his merit, Tyrion’s words seem to bring Dickon out of his stupor, and he soon starts to give tasks to the Reachmen: some of them are sent to bring water to quench the fire, some of them are ordered to stay on guard around their camp, some follow Brienne and Bronn’s trail into the forest. Tyrion cups her elbow, leading Sansa further away from her burning tent; she follows, too numb to resist. The wind finally intensifies, blowing the smoke away from them, clearing the air. She notices that the hem of her gown is burnt, though her skin was spared; she fell asleep the night before in her regular gown because of the cold, which could only be providential, else she’d spend the rest of their trip in her night clothes. The sun slowly starts to emerge; as she sits by a quiet spot on the field, in the shadow of a tree, Sansa seeks under her gown for the knife tied around her calf, finds it and slides it off.

Then she laughs at herself, at the idea of bringing a dagger to a fight against fire. Against madness.

“My lady,” Tyrion raises his eyebrows, staring intently at her hands. “Where did you get that knife?”

“Lord Baelish gave it to me before I left Winterfell,” she answers. They’re far enough from the noise but close enough to be protected by the soldiers standing guard. “To protect myself.” She can’t help but chuckle bitterly.

“Lord Baelish,” Tyrion nods. “Of course he did.”

She frowns. “Why do you ask?”

Tyrion sits down by her side against the trunk of the tree, and carefully reaches for the dagger. Sansa hands it off to him, watching as he slowly shifts it. The blade catches the rising sunlight. “Because I once faced trial in the Vale for the attempt of murdering your brother Bran,” he explains, “on the grounds that this dagger was mine.”

Sansa is flooded with understanding. She blinks the tears the smoke stung in her eyes. That is too much information for a morning when the sun didn’t even completely rise. She remembers it: her mother. Her mother held him prisoner in the Vale, with her aunt Lysa. Jaime Lannister attacked her father in King’s Landing because of Tyrion’s imprisonment. The dawn of War. It hasn’t stopped, since, and she was just a girl, then. Somehow, she’s not surprised; she saw Petyr killing her aunt, his own wife, coldlessly. He confessed to have planned Joffrey’s murder, he sold her to the Boltons. Of _course_ he could be found at the beginning of it all. “But it wasn’t yours?” She carefully asks, hoping that he’ll understand she’s not asking if he did it.

“No,” he answers, and gives the dagger back to her with a sigh. “My lady, be careful. He’s not to be trusted.”

Sansa stares at the camp ahead of them, at the dying flames and smoke, thinking of Cersei, raging in King’s Landing, trails of body in her wake, and Petyr, smirking coldly, carelessly, moving the strings of his toys over the years. _Chaos._ Monstrous, beastly chaos. “I’m not that stupid,” she says, resting her head against the tree. “I do not trust him.”

“I know you’re not stupid,” he murmurs.

“When the time comes,” she vows, “he’ll face justice for everything he’s done.”

Tyrion just scoffs. “Justice,” he mutters. “I wouldn’t hold my breath. Ours is not a just world, Sansa.”

She closes her eyes, breathing in fire and death and chaos. “No,” she agrees, “no, it isn’t, unless we _make_ it just.”

  
  
  
**iv.**

When Brienne and Bronn come back, covered in sweat, blood dripping from their swords, the sun is relentlessly high in the sky. They’re trotting their horses slowly, which seems like a good omen. There’s no more trace of smoke in the air, and Sansa and Tyrion haven’t moved from the shadow of the giant tree along the road, too furious and too scared to lift themselves up, too tired to speak anything at all. They just try to calm down, unable to dissipate the fear that lingers in the air despite the fact no other suspect has been found anywhere in their camp or their surroundings, but also unable to do anything other than wait. The sight of Brienne is enough to give Sansa the strength she needs. She rises to her feet, offering Tyrion a helping hand to do the same. Soon Dickon Tarly joins them, and many of his soldiers too.

“Did you kill them?” Tyrion asks the once sellsword as they approach the exhausted pair.

Ser Bronn climbs off his horse. “Three or four. Brienne chased and killed most of them. Dickon’s men are scanning the area, but I don’t think there’s anyone left.” He looks at her, half awe, half frustration in his clear eyes. “Beast of a woman,” he mutters.

If she’s heard anything, Brienne just ignores him. “Lady Sansa,” she says, climbing off her own horse. “Are you well?”

“I’m well.” Brienne’s hair is damp with sweat, there’s dirt covering each inch of her skin and face, and blood in her hands and clothes. Sansa rushes forward, fumbling through Brienne’s arms. There’s a wince of pain when Sansa touches a blood-soaked part of her tunic, right beneath her ribs. “Are you hurt?”

Brienne shrugs. “It’s nothing,” she murmurs. “I should have slept in armor.”

“That sounds uncomfortable,” Sansa replies, gently, and then cups Brienne’s cheek so the woman will stare her in the eye. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You saved me again.” She curls her lips, her forehead wrinkled with worry. “Let me see the wound.”

“It’s nothing, my lady,” Brienne reiterates as Sansa raises the hem of her tunic.

Sansa examines the wound closely. “It needs cleaning, but it doesn’t look deep.” She raises her eyes to Brienne’s face again. “Does it pain you?”

“Not really,” Brienne answers. Sansa doesn’t know if she can trust her; Brienne has a high level of tolerance to pain, but she would also never worry Sansa over something they couldn’t change. “I should take you back to Dragonstone. We don’t know if Cersei will send more of them.”

“No,” Sansa says, shaking her head. “We’re already halfway there anyway.”

“We’re _not_ halfway,” Bronn cuts off. “We’ve made one third of the way, if we’re being generous. There’s still two weeks ahead, and we already lost half of the sunlight of today.”

“Jaime must be almost finished with the siege on King’s Landing, and the Dornish reinforcement won’t take long,” Sansa insists. “We’ll be safe then. Can someone fetch me a bowl of clean water?”

Dickon glares at one of his soldiers, who leaves right away. Sansa gently guides Brienne to sit on a polished stone. “And while Jaime doesn’t?” Tyrion asks, crossing his arms.

“We move faster, and keep our eyes open,” the Lady of Winterfell declares. “Lord Dickon, I’d also like to request an armor for Brienne. It appears hers melted in the fire of our tent.”

“We don’t have a _spare_ armor,” Dickon says, cautiously.

“Then borrow it from one of your men,” Sansa orders. “I won’t have my sworn-shield walking around unprotected.” When the three men stare at her dubiously, Sansa glares back. Particularly to Tyrion, the Queen’s first representative. “That’s what Cersei wants,” she reminds him. “She wants to scare us into hiding forever.”

“Well, if that was her goal…” Bronn trails off.

“Cersei can’t hurt us more than what we've already been hurt,” Sansa declares, looking keenly at Tyrion.

He keeps her gaze and she sees the plea in his eyes. “She can _kill_ us, Sansa. That is more than what we’ve been hurt.” He licks his lower lip, frowning his brow with concern. “I can’t let you die on the road like this.”

“Going back now will do nothing to protect us. If anything, it will only lead us closer to King’s Landing before we can sail to Dragonstone.” When the soldier comes back with the full bowl, Sansa kneels beside her friend, carefully raising the hem of Brienne’s tunic again and delicately throwing water over the trace of angry red. When the wound is clear and clean, Sansa seems more relaxed. It’s a long wound, but superficial. She raises her head to stare at the men again. “We can’t isolate ourselves forever. We’ll move ahead.”

Her tone leaves no space for questions.

  
  
  
**v.**

The more they move further South, the more winter feels like a child’s tale, a dream.

The rest of their route is uneventful, but tense. Brienne sleeps in armor, _when_ she gets to sleep; Sansa is worried that her friend will fall from her horse and straight out pass out in their way. Brienne dismisses her concerns, but Sansa has been on the road with her for long enough to know the woman is doing it for her sake. Again.

Bronn is no better, waking up every day before dawn to shake the rest of the men awake and break camp so when the sun is finally visible, they’re already on the move. Dickon says that the Roseroad is unusually empty; Sansa thinks it a good sign. It means that no merchant is heading to King’s Landing, at least, which in turn means that their ravens have arrived in their destinies and people have been warned. But as the days go by, even Tyrion stops making jokes, resigning himself to an uncharacteristic silence. Unlike Sansa, the quietness bothers him; she spots him wincing when they stop to raise their tents and sleep every night, but when she asks if he needs anything, he dismisses her with a grunt that is barely human speech.

Every night, before she falls into a shallow sleep, Sansa repeats to herself that _Winter is coming_ , that winter is here, so the flowers, however sparse, and green fields around them won’t distract her from her duty, but soon the solemn words of House Stark are replaced by other words, kinder, sweeter.

 _You must see Highgarden,_ says a sweet voice in her mind. _You'd love it there, I know you would. We have a great masquerade the night of the harvest moon._ Sansa looks up to the sunset sky, listening to the quiet murmur of the waters of the Mander somewhere not far away. Dickon suggests they stop to make camp and sleep, so they can rise with the dawn, since it will be a new moon night and the road will be barely visible in the dark, but Sansa only asks for them to keep marching. “We’re almost there,” she says.

Dickon frowns at her. “No, my lady. We’re at least four hours away.”

 _You should see the costumes, people work on them for months,_ Margaery had said. Sansa pretends there’s a feast waiting for her at her arrival, and also the rose of Highgarden with a mischievous smile and open arms. “No,” she insists. “If we light up torches and ride fast, ahead of the troops, we can get there in three hours.”

Tyrion, who not only cannot bear any day longer on the road but also who just wants to please Sansa most of the time, says, grudging, “let’s just keep going.”

So they keep riding, riding and riding until she sees Highgarden at distance, a small, minuscule point of white stone beneath the starlit sky, imponent over a broad hill but so far that she thinks it a mirage borne of her tiredness at first, Sansa almost cries. Not only because she wants a bath, a bed, a warm meal.

When they reach the gates, they’re well into the evening, and Sansa is shivering with cold beneath her cloak. They’re led to ride through the thorny labirints and the many layers of fortified walls. However, it’s not Margaery Tyrell waiting for her at the Great Hall of Highgarden, but a worried Lady Melessa Tarly, Randyll’s widow. She’s dressed in black, as fit to her mourning, and she’s all over her son as soon as he crosses the door. Dickon Tarly quickly disentangles himself from her grasp, and an irrational, road-tired part of Sansa resents him for it. Fathers go away to Wars; she shouldn’t blame him for taking his mother for granted. But she does, anyway. “Mother,” he says. “This is Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and Lord Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen.”

“Welcome, welcome you all. Bring them salted bread,” says the woman, rushing toward Sansa. For her expression, Sansa knows they were expected beforehand; their letters arrived in time. She puts a hand over Sansa’s cheek. “My child, what happened to you?”

It’s when she remembers that the tips of her dress are still burnt, that she’s the one without a trunk of clothes. She must look horrible. “I am no child, my lady,” she says, but accepts the motherly touch all the same. “Cersei sent her men to hunt me and Lord Tyrion. They had my tent burnt.”

“That terrible woman, mad woman,” Melessa mutters, and then starts to fumble over her dress and arms. Sansa feels, honestly, about to cry. “Are you hurt, my lady?”

“I am well,” she reassures the woman, quietly. Two servants approach them, serving them small pieces of salted bread. Sansa is not so naive as to have faith in the blessing of breaking bread and being a guest. Robb had and it killed him; Sansa is not Robb. She won’t die. But she bites them all the same; she’s still hungry. “I appreciate your care, my lady,” she says. “This is Brienne of Tarth, my sworn-shield and savior,” Sansa points to Brienne by her side. And then, to the sellsword beside Tyrion, “and this is Ser Bronn of Blackwater.”

“You’re all welcome. It’s so late, you must rest. We have rooms prepared for all of you,” the woman says. Sansa barely notes the servants and maids coming in, taking their trunks inside, guiding their group into the Keep. “I’ll have Lady Margaery’s clothes sent to yours and your husband’s chambers, my lady,” Lady Tarly reassures her. “I’ve heard you were friends with her.”

 _Friends, yes,_ Sansa feels like nodding, but before she can say anything, Tyrion speaks. For the first time. “Her husband’s chambers?”

Melessa Tarly blinks, confused. “Well,” she says. “When my son sent a raven, telling me he was coming to Highgarden with Tyrion Lannister and Sansa Stark, I assumed-”

“You are married?” Dickon questions. He seems hurt by the fact, or hurt that Sansa never said it to him. She has absolutely no patience and no time to men’s entitled hurt feelings.

“We were,” she answers to his mother, refusing to look at him.

“I am sorry, my lady,” the woman sounds sincere. “I didn’t know it had been annulled.”

“It wasn’t,” Sansa replies. The confusion of her hosts just gets worse, but she can’t blame them; apparently, the rumours of her unconsummated marriage were limited to the Red Keep - and the North, whenever convenient. But she finds herself again with no energy or strength of will to handle these strangers’ opinions about her marital status. “It’s no matter, my lady. Lord Tyrion and I can share a room tonight. We’ve done it before; I thank you again for your hospitality.”

“This cannot be proper,” Dickon murmurs.

“I beg your pardon, my lord, why _not_?” It’s Tyrion who answers. He’s tired, and in pain, and Sansa knows by now that the combination makes him irritable and at times cruel.

“My lord,” she calls, soothingly, putting a hand on his shoulder and never meeting Dickon’s eye. Only Tyrion’s. “It’s fine.”

It is not fine. Her weariness sweeps into her bones like a vice. They soon find themselves alone in the chamber that’s been prepared for them, one bath ready at the fireplace, the trunk with Margaery’s gowns placed beside her husband’s case; Tyrion stares at the giant bed and then at her, warily. “I’ll share the room with Bronn,” he says, with finality.

But the dirt of the road still clings to her hair and skin, and Sansa is tired. She’s tired of running from death and tired of feeling cold. She’s tired of being motherless, tired of being away from Winterfell; she’s so terribly tired of carrying the weight of men’s guilt or expectations or whatever it is that runs through their minds. “Tyrion,” she says, and perhaps he can hear it all, for he pays attention, even through his own exhaustion. “Please, can we just not do this now? Let’s just go to bed,” she asks, she _begs_. “Just-”

In a second, he stands before her, taking her hand. “Fine,” he agrees. She takes off her gloves and gives them to him; he seems moved with the gesture, bringing her knuckles to his mouth for a kiss. He’s been doing it often, lately, and she finds out that she likes it. “I’ll give you some privacy.”

When he leaves to the contiguous room, Sansa strips herself from her burnt clothes and sinks into the steaming water, completely, even her hair. The bath smells of roses and there are hard soaps and oils propped at the tub’s thick lip. She reaches out for the folded cloth to start to wash herself, and notices her hand is trembling.

Sansa breathes out, resting against the wall of the tub and closing her eyes for a moment, feeling the fear easing out from her stiff muscles under the hot water. _I’ll kill Cersei. I’ll do it for you_ , she vows to Margaerys’ friendly ghost, lurking over every corner of Highgarden. _I’ll do it for us._

  
  
  
**vi.**

Sansa looks better, after the bath. He orders a new one for himself, and when he leaves it, there’s a clean, warm tunic waiting for him. It’s too long on the knees but tight around his chest - he can see it was adapted from a child’s piece of clothes, but he’s touched with the _thoughtfulness_ , nevertheless. When every aspect of their circumstances comes into account, this is relatively more luxury than he ever enjoyed at court.

The tunic clings to his damp skin; their chambers are clean, spacious and neat, and he all but runs to the bed, hiding beneath the covers. He legitimately _moans_ when he feels the featherbed beneath him, closing his eyes. It would be easy to miss the mattress sinking down slightly by his side, if he weren’t hyper-aware of his surroundings. He cracks one eye open, then the other. Sansa had let the flowery robe hang by the post of the bed and was wearing a night-gown that would have been loose in a petite, delicate body like Margaery’s, but in her is just clinging softly to her curves in every right way.

That is going to be a long night. And they were supposed to _rest_.

“This is awkward,” he declares.

(She smells of rosemary again.)

“It isn’t,” she says, hiding beneath the covers to the chin. Better like that. Easier. The fire in the hearth seems too far away to bring any real comfort; the covers do most of the work. A body, a human body, certainly could do part of the work as well. Sansa glares. “I’m not going to bite you.”

For all her cleverness, her sorrows and her impressive survival skills, Sansa is still very much young. Sometimes he’s aware of that with painful clarity. “You trust me more than you should,” he replies.

“I trust you just the right amount.”

Indeed; the bed is enormous and she’s almost one arm away from him. “We should just annul it already,” he says, out of the sudden.

He observes her eyes, braces himself for relief- can’t find it; but he can’t find offense or sadness, either. She just looks contemplative. “Do you think?”

He has to smirk. “Don’t _you_?”

For her credit, she gives it an honest thought. “When this is all over, yes,” she finally sentences. “For now, I think it convenient.”

He turns to the side, enjoying the smooth feeling of the bed beneath him and the softness of the white furs. Her hair is still a little wet, darker in the dim light, but it catches the fireglow beautifully. “Convenient? To keep men from asking for your hand?” He props himself on his elbow and rests his head on his hand. “The lady thinks you’re a good match for her son.” Sansa turns to the side as well, resting her cheek against the pillow. A pause, “actually, her son thinks you’re a good match for her son.”

She giggles. The bath really did wonders for her, he thinks. She still looks tired, but her body seems relaxed, at ease. “They’re trying to serve the realms.”

“Serve the realms,” Tyrion mutters.

A glint touches her vivid blue eyes. “Are you jealous, my lord?”

“I’m not. You’re not mine.” He looks away, vaguely waves a hand about. “This whole situation is a mistake, to be fixed in the morning.”

Sansa narrows her eyes. “You’re jealous.” No longer a question.

Tyrion sighs. A strand of hair falls over her face and he refrains himself from tucking it behind her ear. “I certainly envy his ability of running after your foes and slaying them with his sword, if he so wishes.” _Which he didn’t_ , Tyrion wants to add, but he doesn’t. He can still remember the feeling of powerlessness to protect her; he _will_ get swallowed by self-pity and no one will stop him from doing so.

“That sounds like a song, my lord,” she says. He can listen to the mockery, but can’t bring himself to feel offended. “Brienne is my true knight in shining armor. I am not looking for someone else.”

“Hm.” He gives up, reaching out to smooth the wild curl of hair away from her face.

She stares at him intently. “You look tired. How’s your pain?”

He never said to her he was in pain. “Better after the hot bath. All warm things and places make it better.”

“And here I am, taking you to the coldest land of the country,” she says, though she doesn’t sound particularly sorry. He remembers, absently, that the last time he’d been in Winterfell it had been summer. And it was snowing.

He shrugs as well as he’s able. “I’m not worried about that. It’s a long way back to Dragonstone, and Tarly’s men are not going all the way with us; it’s a waste of time.”

“Jaime must already have started the siege on King’s Landing by now and soon the Dornish army will get there too.” He notices, too late, she’s comforting _him._ “We’ll survive. We always do.”

“Well, we better. I really need to take you home.” She smiles at that, and seems moved, though he didn’t mean to move her. “Remind me again why we’re here.”

She laughs under her breath, letting her lids fall closed. “Because there’s a lack of power here, in the Reach, and Daenerys gave us the task of fixing that,” she brings the covers up, “also, because we’re helping the realms to prepare the stocks for winter.”

“Oh, that.” War. Impending death. The longest winter of the last generations. “Sure.”

“Tyrion,” she calls out, her eyes still closed.

He slides back into his corner of the bed, lying on his back. “Hm?”

“We’ll be alright,” she says, simply.

(With her eyes closed like that, he can stare at her for as long as he’d like.)

“Do you promise?” He asks, jokingly but not really. She smiles all the same, sleepy and perfect.

“I promise,” she says, and he believes in her.

  
  
  
**vii.**

Sansa wakes up the next day with sunlight filtered by the curtains, the sight of a maid placing a tray over the table in the corner of the room, and an empty bed.

She opens her eyes, and then sinks deeper into the mattress. Gods, she hasn’t slept well like that in months. She stretches her arms, feeling a sweet pain in the muscles in her back. “Good afternoon, my lady,” says the maid with a smile. “Here’s your midday meal.”

She sits up on the bed, alarmed. “Midday meal?”

“Your lord husband asked us not to disturb your sleep,” says the girl, turning to Sansa.

She looks briefly to the side, wondering if it’s possible to see the shape of an emptiness; she can swear that the hollow left in the clean, white sheets kept all the contours of his body. “And where is he?”

“Lord Tyrion has asked us to move his belongings to Ser Bronn’s room, my lady,” the maid replies, in a neutral tone.

Sansa nods. “Of course.”

(She remembers the furious, irrationally possessive inclination toward him every time she saw him and Daenerys side by side: that was _jealousy._ The warmth in her cheeks whenever she listened to his voice, biding her good morning on the road: that was _want._ This time, it takes a few days, but Sansa eventually names the feeling: this one is _disappointment._ All unbidden. She keeps the list of them, and can’t help but probe them at night, when she can’t sleep, like cherry-picking her own heart. Then, she tucks it all inside, safely guarded from daylight.

 _You’re lonely,_ she concludes, _and that’s frankly pitiful._

For the rest of their stay in Highgarden, they do not share a bed again.)

  
  
  
**viii.**

The lords of the Reach received their ravens; every morning in Highgarden a different party arrives under a different banner. Tyrion spends his days talking to them in the name of the Queen - the Hightowers and the last lord Florent, the Fossoways and lord Oakheart and the Beesburys and the tradesmen with no great name and too much gold in their pockets, from Ashford and even Tumbleton, a town that borders the Crownlands and had many reasons to stand by King’s Landing. He finds out that it isn’t hard to convince them to follow the lead of Highgarden, wherever it is. They’re a united front - for economical reasons more than their praised loyalty or honor. To the richest, most populous and most fertile of the kingdoms, a land that counted with an abundance of towns, where merchants had as much power as lords, it is _bad business_ to be divided. No wonder they barely seem to mourn Randyll Tarly: it is most certainly bad business to be on the losing side of the War, and Tyrion doesn’t have any difficulty in convincing them about the obvious victory of the Dragon Queen.

They’re not unlike the Tyrells, shifting their loyalties at their own convenience, and Tyrion is not at all surprised. Let it never be said, however, that the Reachmen are _stupid._ That they are not.

The problem is who, after all, is going to hold Highgarden in Daenerys’ name. Each one of them, in private meetings with Tyrion, are interested, of course. Powerful lord Leyton Hightower argues that he is responsible for one of the greatest city _of the Seven Kingdoms_ , quiet Ser Florent remembers Tyrion that his sister was once Queen (Tyrion tries to keep a straight face at that; the idea that _Stannis_ had been, at any given point of the War, celebrated as King is laughable, but he’s not so stupid as to laugh in the face of Daenerys’ allies), Lord Paxter Redwyne, lady Mina Tyrell’s widower - a man who lives in _an island,_ for the gods’ sake - argues that he has much to offer, a whole new fleet and wine in abundance and trades all across Westeros and beyond, and if only he could be _properly rewarded_ for years of loyalty to Highgarden, and even Hobber, a tradesmen from Tumbleton, a man with no last name and a successful web of business across small towns in the Reach and King’s Landing itself, offers himself to the post - on the grounds simply that each one of the other men already have their castles to hold and care for, even _Ashford_ had a lord and its holdfast, and the realms needed new perspectives.

They’re all very _polite_ with each other, though, and no one would dare to know or speak about the thin layer of competition in the air. In the following days, Tyrion soon realizes that his challenge is not who he is going to choose, but who he is going to _decline_ , and whose ego could be broken without breaking the peace with it.

Of course he finds little sleep, even on a very serviceable couch by the fireplace, fit enough for an Imp like him. Ser Bronn’s loud snoring is not what keeps Tyrion awake at night. He’s not one to believe in haunted castles - Highgarden least of all, made of white polished marble stones and decorated in flowers, golden fountains in every corner and beautiful paintings hanging on the walls and broad windows making the best out of the slowly decreasing daylight and grapevines and thorny roses snaking the imponent towers; fuck, the _cushions_ smell of roses - but sometimes he remembers Margaery, pretty and cunning and dead before her time, and it’s like the ghosts of Tyrells can smell Lannister blood. In those nights he misses Sansa more than usual, like a personal token who could protect him from his own sins. He kept himself from her chambers and, for the peace’s sake, from her company. She spends her days with Lady Melessa Tarly, planning stocks and grain stores, and charming each lord and lady of the Reach into believing the threat of the Others - together they lay plans for escape routes, the best places of hiding, and she gathers more men to join Dickon Tarly’s army to the North. Everyday he gets to see her working and walking around and overall _breathing_ in those tempting colorful dresses that embraced her waist tightly and exposed the soft skin of her chest and delineated her long legs and sometimes, may the gods help him, _sometimes_ graciously lifted her bosom to admiration. She keeps combing her hair after Margaery’s style, all gentle auburn curls falling over her shoulders and simple braids around her head like a _crown_ , and for fuck’s sake; no woman should be allowed to be that beautiful. He refuses to believe he is the only person _distracted_ by her beauty.

If people know or not of the fact that they’re still legally married, Tyrion is happy to be ignorant about it. It is already too much of a fight to convince his own twisted, lustful mind that the woman is _not_ his for claiming.

Bronn openly laughs at him. “You’re horny,” the sellsword declares. “Get a whore, m’lord. You’ll feel better.”

Tyrion does _not_ get a whore, and (maybe because of that) he does not feel better.

  
  
  
**ix.**

Highgarden is the castle of her dreams, the dreams she had when she was a girl.

Sansa doesn’t dream anymore, though. She sets goals and makes plans, and plan she does every day during her stay - it is easy to let herself be swayed by the relatively milder weather, by the false sensation of safeness when she gets to fall asleep in a locked chamber instead of beneath the night sky on the road, fearing Cersei will get to her this time, by the strolling in the gardens with Brienne in the mornings when she’s not working with adorable Lady Melessa on the accounts of the castle and of the other castles of the Reach. She doesn’t get used to sleeping alone and eventually moves to Brienne’s chambers; she thinks of Margaery every day, Brienne tells her of Renly, and they accept the sadness that comes along with the peace of just being in that castle, for it’s a single package.

And though there’s certain comfort in that - in slipping into Marge’s skin, wearing her dresses and fashioning her hair every morning and putting on golden earrings - Sansa feels the visceral need to remember she is herself. A Stark of Winterfell, still, if wolfless. Her home grows in the snow and winter is breed in her bones. Of all the people who can make her remember, no one does it as Tyrion. Tyrion, of all people, who calls her _Lady Stark_ , all heavy, in public, and _Sansa_ , all kindness, in private.

He’s Hand of the Queen and a Lannister; it is _crucial_ to have him by her side. If he’s charmed by her, well, all the better. But he’s more than a piece on the board. Sansa can’t lie to herself.

She finds him in one of the solars ceded for them. The night is again falling, painting dark-purple brushes patterns in the clouds against the orange sky. He’s staring at the garden outside the window, lost in thought, cup in hand, and Sansa stops by the door, just staring at him. Thinking is what he does best, after all; it is not unlike watching Brienne sparring.

She chides herself for the fooliness of her thoughts and then knocks on the open door. “My lord,” she calls out, softly.

He bends his neck back to look at her, and then smiles. “Lady Stark,” he says. “Come in.”

She does, and sits in the armchair across him. Surprisingly, he doesn’t say a thing, at first. They just watch the sunset together. The winter breeze and the early hour cannot let them be mistaken that winter is here, but they can still see the green carpet stretching for miles ahead, and some flowers still refuse to die, patches of deep purple and royal blue. “It’s beautiful in here,” she says, after a while.

“Yes, and the wine is so good,” he agrees, quietly, taking a small sip from his cup. After a moment just long enough, “to think you could have had it, had your betrothal with Ser Loras bore fruit.”

Oh, so he’s been thinking of her. Sansa scoffs deep in her breath. The woman she is now wouldn’t switch Tyrion for Highgarden, but the girl she used to be certainly would. “You moved out of our chambers,” she states. It’s a fact. It’s been eight days.

He shrugs. “I assumed you’d prefer it like that, once we were settled. The couch in Ser Bronn’s rooms is serving me just fine.”

Sansa frowns. After weeks on the road, he deserves more than a couch. “But a bed is more comfortable.”

He laughs, eyes on the green fields, “Sansa, I’ve already slept _inside a box, inside a boat_. Believe me when I say a couch is like a royal chamber.”

“You’ve been avoiding me, my lord,” she says.

He looks at her, at last. Doesn’t deny it. “You’ve been busy,” he explains.

“And so have you.” She turns her body towards him. His sharp gaze studies her face closely. “How is your progress?”

Tyrion chuckles, humorlessly, and rests his head back against his chair, closing his eyes as if he’s accessing a mental list and lifting a finger for each candidate: “Ser Inry Florent can hold a grudge, but cannot, for the life of him, _act_ on it, and has absolutely no sense of humor,” he starts.

Sansa smiles. “You can’t choose the Lord of Highgarden based on them laughing at your jokes or not, Tyrion.”

“Watch me, then,” he smirks, lifts another finger as he goes on, “Lord Leyton Hightower is smart and can befriend anyone, but I think it unwise to leave _both_ Highgarden and Oldtown at the mercy of the same person, however pleasant is said person.”

Sansa ponders that. It does make sense. “And the merchant?”

Tyrion scoffs. “We’re not giving Highgarden to a _tradesman,_ ” he dismisses, and Sansa rolls her eyes. He is such a _Lannister._ “I like Lord Paxter. He had a Tyrell wife, at some point, and… Well, he’s easy to work and easy to know,” Tyrion shrugs; Sansa understands he is _easy to guide_. She had the same impression of the man. “His children can keep the Arbor.”

Sansa narrows her eyelids. “It has nothing to do with the fact he is responsible for the best wine of the country?”

Tyrion opens his eyes and stares at her innocently. “Why would you _ever_ think that, my lady,” he says, feigning offense. Sansa laughs; he seems to bask in the sound. “Unless lord Dickon has changed his mind and decided to leave Horn Hill for his sister and assume _some_ responsibility for his father’s stained legacy-”

“He has not,” Sansa informs.

“- then it’s a pity,” Tyrion says. “It could be your chance to be lady of Highgarden, after all. I’m stunned that _he_ hasn’t realized that.”

Sansa rolls her eyes, annoyed. “I don’t want to be the Lady of Highgarden.” She doesn’t want to dwell on the topic, not with him; she’s not sure she’ll keep her tongue quiet this time, and Tyrion can make her speak against her own sense and better judgment. “Did the Queen send any word?”

Tyrion shifts, uncomfortably, in his armchair, and drinks more of his Arbor Red. “The last I knew, she safely arrived in Dorne, and Ellaria summoned the Dornish forces. At this point, they must have already left for King’s Landing.” Sansa nods, taking an empty, idle cup. She fills it for herself and fills Tyrion’s cup, too. He stares at her as she does so, mistrust clouding his beautiful green eyes. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, she’s the Queen you’re working for,” Sansa answers.

“The Queen _we_ are working for.”

Sansa holds the urge to roll her eyes again. “Semantics.” She left Daenerys on good terms, which is very different from surrender. Again: semantics. “We know the North, the Riverlands, the West and the Reach have enough supplies. The Reach can provide for themselves _and_ two or even three kingdoms for at least three years.” She’d never seen such _abundance_ of resources in one single country; the North was prepared for three years on their own, the Riverlands for one, the West for two. If Petyr has done anything useful in the Vale she will hear of him soon, but, “I have no word from Dorne. We don’t know if they’ll need our aid.”

Tyrion sighs. “If Daenerys checked their storage, she didn’t let me know.”

Sansa drums her fingers, absently, on the wooden oval table. “My lord,” she asks, carefully, “truly, how _is_ Dorne?”

He stares at her with a heavy brow. “What do you mean?” He questions, like someone who absolutely knows what she means.

Sansa curls her lips, a habit she learned from her mother and never got rid of. “Ellaria is a bastard,” she begins, cautiously. “As are her daughters.”

“As is your King. And bastards are not frowned upon in Dorne.”

“Bastards who kill their liege House and their heirs and stage a coup?” Sansa raises one eyebrow and she sees, in his eyes, that he _knows_ it. “Are you certain there’s no Martell left?”

“Ellaria has hold of their men,” Tyrion argues. “It’s what we need now. Men to battle.”

“When this War is over we’ll need more than muscles,” Sansa says, trying to keep the edge out of her voice. “Once, a bastard took hold of the North, and killed his liege lord, and his end was horrific.”

“You made sure of it, I’m sure,” Tyrion says, almost _respectfully._

“I did, and if there’s a single Martell left somewhere, I’m sure they’re waiting for their chance.”

Tyrion rubs his own face wearily. “I don’t like Ellaria either,” he confesses. “She killed my niece and she should be punished, but-”

He doesn’t finish, and Sansa waits, and waits. “But?”

“But we have to work with the people we have,” he finishes, tiredly.

“Daenerys might have conquered Essos through loyalty, but she is building her alliances in Westeros based on vengeance,” Sansa says. “Have you never wondered what will happen once her allies get it?”

He scoffs dryly. “ _You_ are really lecturing me on vengeance?” He stares intently at her hair, at her dress. Margaery’s dress. “Whatever the game you’re playing, Sansa, stop.”

“I’m not playing-”

“Yes, you are. I don’t know what it is, but you are.” And there it is. The pleading in his eyes. The silent _please._ “Daenerys is our _only_ chance against Cersei.”

Just as she’s about to take a breath, someone knocks on the still open door.

They both stare at one another for a single second, both knowing that conversation is not over yet, and turn their heads toward the door, almost in momentary surrender. “Yes?” Tyrion says, frustratedly.

It’s a maid, and she looks apprehensively between the both of them. “My lady,” she says, “Lady Melessa’s son just arrived, and he’d like to speak with you. He didn’t know you would be here.”

Sansa and Tyrion share a confused look. “Dickon?” Tyrion asks.

“No, my lord,” answers the maid. “The oldest. Samwell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been listening to the song that gave the name to this fic and I realized that many lines in it fit perfectly into the chapters, so I've added them at the beginning of each chapter (retrospectively)! Please ignore me. I'm silly.
> 
> Also them.


End file.
